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THE    EARLY    POEMS 


OF 


James  Russell  Lowell 


BIOGRAPHICAL     SKETCH 


NATHAN    HASKELL   DOLE. 


NEW  YORK:  46  East  14TH  Street. 

THOMAS     Y.     CROWE  LL     &     CO. 

BOSTON:   100  Purchase  Street, 


COPYKIGIIT,    1S92, 

By  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


TVVn-SETTrSG    AND    El.ECTBOT-VTING   I'.Y 
C.  J.  PETEBS  &  SON,  BOSTON 


Alfuei)  iIUDG3  &  Son,  Printers,  Boston 


95 


r5/>i 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Biographical  Sketch vii 

Appledore   ^ 

To  THE  Dandelion 4 

Dara 7 

To  J.  F.  H lo 

Prometheus 12 

Rosaline 26 

Sonnet 3^ 

A  Glance  behind  the  Curtain 31 

A  Song 42 

The  Moon •  43 

The  Fatherland 45 

A  Parable 46 

On  the  death  of  a  Friend's  Child 48 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car 51 

An  Incident  of  the  Fire  at  Hamburgh 54 

Sonnets 5^ 

The  Unhappy  Lot  of  Mr.  Knott 61 

Hakon's  Lay 94 

To  the  Future 97 

Out  of  Doors 100 

A  Reverie 103 

In  Sadness 105 

Farewell 107 

A  Dirge 112 

Fancies  about  a  Rosebud 119 

New  Year's  Eve,  1844  . 122 


M7ZT.^!G3i 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Mystical  Ballad 127 

Opening  Poem  to  ''A  Year's  Life" 132 

Dedication  to  "A  Year's  Life" 133 

Threnodia 133 

The  Serenade 138 

Song 141 

The  Departed 142 

The  Bobolink i47 

Forgetfulness 151 

Song 152 

The  Poet i53 

Flowers i54 

The  Lover 161 

To  E.  W.  G 162 

Isabel 165 

Music 167 

Song 172 

Ianthe 175 

Love's  Altar 182 

My  Love 184 

With  a  Pressed  Flower 187 

Impartiality 188 

Bellerophon 189 

Something  Natural i95 

The  Sirens       196 

A  Feeling 200 

The  Beggar 201 

Serenade 203 

Irene 204 

The  Lost  Child 207 

The  Church 208 

The  Unlovely 210 

Love-Song 212 

Song 213 

A  Love-Dream 216 

Fourth  of  July  Ode 218 

Sphinx 220 

"  Goe,  Little  Booke," 223 

A  Fable  for  Critics 225 

The  Yision  of  Sir  Launfal 326 


CONTENTS. 


Sonnets  : 
I. 
II. 
III. 
IV. 
V. 
VI. 
VII. 
VIII. 
IX. 
X. 
XI. 
XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 
XV. 
XVI. 
XVII. 
XVIII. 
XIX. 
XX. 
XXI. 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 
XXVIII. 
XXIX. 
XXX. 
Sonnets 
I. 
II. 
III. 
IV. 
V. 


Disappointment ZA~ 

Great  Human  Nature 342 

To  a  Friend 343 

So  may  it  be 343 

0  Child  of  Nature 344 

"  For  this  true  nobleness  " 345 

To 345 

Might  I  but  be  beloved 346 

Why  should  we  ever  weary  ? 34^ 

Green  Mountains 347 

My  Friend,  adorn  Life's  Valley 34^ 

Verse  cannot  say 34<^ 

The  soul  would  fain 349 

1  saw  a  gate 349 

I  would  not  have  this  perfect  love 35^ 

To  the  dark,  narrow  house 35 ^ 

I  fain  would  give  to  thee 35 ' 

Much  I  had  mused  of  Love 35 2 

Sayest  thou,  most  beautiful 35^ 

Poet,  who  sittest  in  thy  pleasant  room    ....  353 

"  No  more  but  so  ?  " 354 

To  a  Voice  heard  in  Mount  Auburn 354 

On  Reading  Spenser  again 355 

Light  of  mine  eyes  ! 35" 

Silent  as  one  who  treads 35" 

A  gentleness  that  grows 357 

When  the  glad  soul 357 

To  the  Evening-Star 35^ 

Reading 359 

To ,  after  a  Snow-Storm 359 

ON  Names: 

Edith 361 

Rose 361 

Mary 362 

Caroline 363 

Anne 363 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

Ix  the  year  1639  Percival  Lowle,  or  Lowell,  a  merchant  of 
Bristol,  England,  landed  at  the  little  seaport  town  of  New- 
bury, Mass. 

We  generally  speak  of  a  mans  descent.  In  the  case  of 
James  Russell  Lowell's  ancestry  it  was  rather  an  ascent 
through  eight  generations.  Percival  Lowle's  son,  John  L. 
Lowell,  was  a  worthy  cooper  in  old  Newbury;  his  great- 
grandson  was  a  shoemaker,  his  great-great  grandson  was  the 
Rev.  John  Lowell  of  Newburyport,  who  was  the  father  of 
the  Hon.  John  Lowell,  by  some  regarded  as  the  author 
of  the  clause  in  the  Massachusetts  Constitution  abolishing 
slavery. 

Judge  Lowell's  son,  Charles,  was  a  Unitarian  minister, 
"learned,  saintly,  and  discreet."  He  married  Miss  Harriet 
Traill  Spence  of  Portsmouth,  —  a  woman  of  superior  mind, 
of  great  wit,  vivacity,  and  an  impetuosity  that  reached  ec- 
centricity. She  was  of  Keltic  blood,  of  a  family  that  came 
from  the  Orkneys,  and  claimed  descent  from  the  Sir  Patrick 
Spens  of  "the  grand  old  ballad."  Several  of  her  family 
were  connected  with  the  American  navy.  Her  father  was 
Keith  Spence,  purser  of  the  frigate  "Philadelphia,"  and  a 
prisoner  at  Tripoli. 

By  ancestry  on  both  sides,  and  by  connections  with  the 
Russells  and  other  distinguished  families,  Lowell  was  the  best 
type  of  the  New  England  gentleman. 

He  was  born  on  the  22d  of  February,  1819,  at  Elmwood, 
on  Brattle  Street,  Cambridge. 

This  three-storied  colonial  mansion  of  wood  was  built  in 


viii  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

1767  by  Thomas  Oliver,  the  last  royal  Lieutenant-Governor, 
before  the  Revolution.'  Like  other  houses  in  "  Tory  Row," 
it  was  abandoned  by  its  owners.  Soon  afterwards  it  came  into 
possession  of  Elbridge  Gerry,  Governor  of  Massachusetts, 
and  fifth  Vice-President  of  the  United  States,  whose  memory 
and  name  are  kept  alive  by  the  term  '■'■  gerryt?ia7ider .''^  It 
next  became  the  property  of  Dr.  Lowell  about  a  year  before 
the  birth  of  his  youngest  child,  and  it  was  the  home  of  the 
poet  until  his  death. 

Lowell's  early  education  was  obtained  mainly  at  a  school 
kept  nearly  opposite  Elmwood  by  a  retired  publisher,  an 
Englishman,  named  William  Wells.  He  also  studied  in  the 
classical  school  of  Mr.  Daniel  G.  Ingraham  in  Boston.  He 
was  graduated  from  Harvard  College  in  the  class  of  1838.  ' 
Francis  H.  Underwood  quotes  him  as  frequently  declaring  that 
he  read  almost  everything  except  the  class-books  prescribed 
by  the  faculty.  Lowell  says,  in  one  of  his  early  poems  refer- 
ring to  Harvard,  — 

"  Tho  lightly  prized  the  ribboned  parchments  three, 
Yet  collegisse  Jiivat,  I  am  glad 
That  here  what  colleging  was  mine  I  had." 

He  was  secretary  of  the  Hasty  Pudding  Society,  and 
one  of  the  editors  of  the  short-lived  college  periodical 
Llarvardiana,  to  which  he  contributed  various   articles  in 

*  Thomas  Oliver  was  graduated  from  Harvard  College  in  the  class  of  1753. 
He  was  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  and  lived  first  in  Roxbury.  He  bought  the 
property  on  Elmwood  Avenue  in  1766.  When  he  accepted  the  royal  commission 
of  Lieutenant-Governor,  he  became  President  of  the  Council  appointed  by  tho 
King.  On  .Sept.  2,  1774,  about  four  thousand  Middlesex  freeholders  assembled 
at  Cambridge  and  compelled  the  mandamus  councillors  to  resign.  The  Presi- 
dent of  the  Council  urged  the  propriety  of  delay,  but  the  Committee  would  not 
spare  him.  He  was  forced  to  sign  an  agreement,  "  as  a  man  of  honor  and  a 
Christian,  that  he  would  never  hereafter,  upon  any  terms  whatsoever,  accept  a 
seat  at  said  Board  on  the  present  novel  and  oppressive  form  of  government." 
He  immediately  quitted  Cambridge ;  and  when  the  British  troops  evacuated 
Boston  he  accompanied  them.  By  an  odd  coincidence  he  went  to  reside  at 
Bristol,  England,  where  he  died  at  the  age  of  eighty-two  years,  in  1815,  shortly 
before  the  Lowells,  who  were  of  Bristol  origin,  took  possession  of  his  former 
home.  In  Underwood's  Sketch  of  Lowell,  Thomas  Oliver  is  confused  with 
Chief  Justice  Peter  Oliver,  a  man  of  a  veiy  different  type  of  character. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  IX 

prose  and  verse.  A  serious  escapade,  which  augured  ill  for 
his  success  in  life,  resulted  in  his  suspension  just  before 
commencement  in  1838.  He  had  been  elected  poet  of  his 
class.  This  misfortune  prevented  him  from  delivering  the 
poem  which  was  afterwards  published  anonymously  for  pri- 
vate distribution.  It  contained  a  satire  on  abolitionists  and 
reformers.  He  was  sent  for  his  own  reform  to  Concord, 
where  he  resided  in  the  family  of  Barzillai  Frost,  and  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Emerson,  then  beginning  to  rouse  the 
ire  of  conservative  Unitarianism  by  his  transcendental  philos- 
ophy, the  brilliant  but  overestimated  .Margaret  Fuller,  who 
afterwards  severely  criticised  his  verse,  and  other  well-known 
residents  of  the  pretty  town. 

On  his  return  to  Cambridge  he  took  up  the  study  of  law, 
and,  in  1840,  received  the  degree  of  LL.B.  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  open  an  office  in  Boston ;  but  it  is  a  question 
whether  there  was  any  actual  basis  of  fact  in  a  whimsical 
sketch  of  his  entitled  "  My  First  Client,"  published  in  the 
short-lived  Boston  Miscellany,  edited  by  Nathan  Hale. 

Several  things  engrossed  Lowell's  attention  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  law.  Society  at  Cambridge  was  particularly  attractive 
at  that  time.  Allston  the  painter  was  living  at  Cambridge- 
port.  Judge  Story's  pleasant  home  was  on  Brattle  Street. 
The  Fays  then  occupied  the  house  which  has  since  become 
the  seat  of  "  the  Annex."  Longfellow,  described  as  "  a 
slender,  blond  young  professor,"  was  established  in  the 
Craigie  House.  The  famous  names  of  Dr.  Palfrey,  Professor 
Andrews  Norton,  father  of  Lowell's  friend  and  biographer, 
the  "saintly"  Henry  Ware,  and  others  will  occur  to  the 
reader.  With  Emerson,  Wyman,  Agassiz,  and  Stillman, 
Lowell  took  long  walks  and  excursions.  He  knew  every 
inch  of  the  beautiful  ground  then  called  "Sweet  Auburn," 
now  turned  by  the  hand  of  misguided  man  into  that  most 
distressing  of  monstrosities  —  a  modern  cemetery.  He 
haunted  the  poetic  shades  of  the  Waverley  Oaks,  heard  the 
charming  music  of  Beaver  Brook,  and  climbed  the  hills  of 
Belmont  and  Arlington.  He  penetrated  the  wild  fastnesses 
of  the  Adirondacks,  and  fished  in  the  clear  waters  of  Moose- 


X  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

head  Lake.  Descriptions  of  these  trips  he  contributed  to 
the  various  periodicals  which  were  then  constantly  springing 
up  and  dying  after  one  or  two  issues. 

He  himself  took  his  turn  in  establishing  a  magazine.  In 
January,  1843,  ^e  started  The  Pioneer,  to  which  Hawthorne, 
John  Neal,  Miss  Barrett,  Pee,  Whittier,  Story,  Parsons,  and 
others  contributed,  and  which,  in  spite  of  such  an  array  of 
talent,  perished  untimely  during  the  winds  of  March. 

He  had  already  published,  in  1841,  a  little  volume  of  poems 
entitled  "A  Year's  Life.''  They  were  marked  by  no  great 
originality,  betrayed  little  promise  of  future  eminence,  and 
Margaret  Fuller,  who  reviewed  them,  was  quite  right  in  assert- 
ing that  "  neither  the  imagery  nor  the  music  of  Lowell's 
verses  was  his  own."  The  first  sonnet  in  the  present  volume 
(page  31)  practically  acknowledges  the  force  of  this  criti- 
cism. Lowell's  later  and  correct er  taste  omitted  most  of 
them  from  his  collected  works. 

Not  far  from  Elmwood,  but  in  the  adjoining  village  of 
Watertown,  lived  one  of  Lowell's  classmates,  named  White, 
whose  sister,  Maria,  a  slender,  delicate  girl,  with  a  poetic 
genius  in  some  respects  more  regulated  and  lofty  than  his 
own,  early  inspired  him  with  a  true  and  saving  love.  Speak- 
ing of  the  influences  that  moulded  his  life,  George  William 
Curtis  says :  — 

"  The  first  and  most  enduring  was  an  early  and  happy  passion  for  a 
lovely  and  high-minded  woman  who  became  his  wife  —  the  Egeria  who 
exalted  his  youth  and  confirmed  his  noblest  aspirations  :  a  heaven-eyed 
counsellor  of  the  serener  air,  who  filled  his  mind  with  peace  and  his  life 
with  joy." 

The  young  lady's  prudent  father  objected  to  the  marriage 
until  the  newly  fledged  lawyer  should  be  in  a  position  to 
support  a  wife. 

Shortly  after  the  shipwreck  of  7he  Pioneer,  Lowell  was 
offered  a  hundred  dollars  by  Graham's  Monthly  for  ten  poems. 
When  Pegasus  is  able  to  earn  such  princely  sums,  there  seems 
no  reason  why  Love  should  be  kept  waiting  at  the  cottage 
door.  In  1844  Lowell  published  a  new  edition  of  his  poems, 
and  married  Miss  White.     It  was  her  influence  that  decided 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xi 

him  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  abolitionists.  It  was  her  re- 
fined taste  that  shaped  and  tempered  his  impetuous  verse.  A 
volume  of  her  poems  was  afterwards  privately  printed,  and  is 
now  very  rare.  It  is  an  odd  circumstance  that  in  Lowell's 
library,  from  which  Harvard  College  was  allowed  to  select 
any  volumes  not  in  Gore  Hall,  neither  this  book  nor  any  of 
LowelTs  own  early  poems  was  to  be  found. 

The  young  couple  took  up  their  residence  at  Elmwood,  and 
here  were  born  two  daughters.  One  died  early;  the  other 
still  survives. 

In  1845  appeared  "  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,"  —  a  genuine 
inspiration  composed  in  two  days  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  of 
poetic  fervor.  That  more  than  anything  established  his 
fame.     He  recognized  that  he  was  dedicated  to  the  JVIuses. 

In  1S46  he  wrote  :  — 

"  If  I  have  any  vocation,  it  is  the  making  of  verse.  When  I  take  my  pen 
for  that,  the  world  opens  itself  ungrudgingly  before  me;  everything  seems 
clear  and  easy,  as  it  seems  sinking  to  the  bottom  could  be  as  one  leans 
over  the  edge  of  his  boat  in  one  of  those  dear  coves  at  Fresh  Pond.  .  .  . 
My  true  place  is  to  serve  the  cause  as  a  poet.  Then  my  heart  leaps  before 
me  into  the  conflict." 

This  year  he  began  his  "  Biglow  Papers  "  in  the  Boston  Cou- 
rier. '^\xz\\jeiix iV  esprit  a.Y&  apt  to  be  ephemeral.  LowelTs  are 
immortal.  They  have  preserved  in  literary  form  a  fast-fading 
dialect ;  they  have  caught  and  embalmed  the  mighty  issues 
of  a  tremendous  world-problem.  Their  influence  was  incal- 
culable. He  gathered  them  into  a  volume  in  1848,  and  that 
same  year  became  corresponding  editor  of  the  Anti-Slavery 
Standard.  Fortunate  man  who  throws  himself  into  an  un- 
popular cause  which  is  in  harmony  with  the  Right !  How 
different  from  Wordsworth  who  attacked  the  ballot  and  took 
sides  against  reform ! 

Lowell's  penchant  for  satire  was  exemplified  again  the  same 
year  in  his  "  Fable  for  Critics"  with  its  rhyming  title-page  : 

"  A  glance  at  a  Few  of  our  Literary  Progenies 

{Mrs.  Malaprop''s  word)  from  the  Tub  of  Diogenes, 

Set  forth  in  October,  the  31st  Day 

In  the  year  '48,  G.  P.  Putnam,  Broadway." 


xil  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

In  this  Lowell  with  no  sparing  hand  laid  on  his  portraits 
most  droll  and  amusing  colors.  It  is  a  comic  portrait  gallery, 
a  series  of  caricatures  whose  greatest  value  (as  in  all  good 
caricatures)  lies  in  the  accurate  presentation  of  characteristic 
features.     He  did  not  spare  himself:  — 

'•  There  is  Lowell,  who  's  striving  Parnassus  to  climb 
With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together  with  rhyme. 
He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  troubles  and  bowlders. 
But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on  his  shoulders. 
The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 
Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  singing  and  preaching ; 
His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would  ring  pretty  well, 
But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of  the  shell, 
And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Methusalem 
At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  New  Jerusalem." 

Some  of  his  thrusts  left  embittered  feelings,  but  in  general 
the  tone  was  so  good-natured  that  only  the  thin-skinned  could 
object,  and  it  must  be  confessed  many  of  his  judgments  have 
been  confirmed  by  Time. 

In  1 85 1  Lowell  visited  Europe,  and  spent  upwards  of  a 
year  widening  his  acquaintance  with  the  polite  languages. 
But  it  is  remarkable  that  Lowell  gave  the  world  almost  no 
metrical  translations.  Shortly  after  his  return  his  wife  died 
(Oct.  27,  1853)  in  a  slow  decline.  In  reference  to  this  be- 
reavement Longfellow  wrote  his  beautiful  poem,  "  The  Two 
Angels." 

The  following  year  Longfellow  resigned  his  chair  of  Smith 
Professor  of  the  French  and  Spanish  Languages  and  Litera- 
tureland  Belles  Lettres,  and  Lowell  was  appointed  his  suc- 
cessor with  two  years'  leave  of  absence.  He  had  won  his 
spurs.  He  had  collected  his  poems  in  two  volumes,  not  in- 
cluding "A  Year's  Life,"  the  "  Biglow  Papers,"  or  the  "  Fable 
for  Critics."  He  was  known  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
contributors  to  Putnam'' s  Monthly  and  other  magazines. 

In  1854  he  delivered  a  series  of  twelve  lectures  on  English 
poetry  before  the  Lowell  Institute.  Ten  years  before  he  had 
published  a  volume  of  "  Conversations  on  the  Poets."  The 
contrast  between  the  two  works  was  no  less  pronounced  than 
that  between  his  earlier  and  later  poems. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  XIU 

In  each,  however,  there  is  a  tropical  abundance  which  is 
confusing  —  Metaphors  trample  on  the  heels  of  Similes,  and 
quiint  and  often  grotesque  conceits  sometimes  pall  upon  the 
taste,  just  as  in  the  poems  a  flash  of  incongruous  wit  often 
disturbs  the  serenity  that  is  desirable. 

On  his  return  from  Europe,  Mr.  Lowell  occupied  the  chair 
which  he  adorned  by  his  fame  rather  than  his  actual  work. 
He  lectured  on  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Chaucer,  and  Cervantes, 
and  delighted  his  audiences.  But  he  was  prone  to  be  late  at 
his  college  exercises,  and  often  forgot  them  altogether. 

Absence  of  mind  was  one  of  his  characteristics.  In  con- 
nection with  his  professorship  he  became  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  in  1857.  From  1863  until  1872  he  was  associated 
with  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton  in  the  conduct  of  the 
North  American  Review.  But  he  had  a  curious  and  annoy- 
ing habit  of  carrying  home  manuscripts  to  read  and  then  for- 
getting, or  mislaying,  or  even  losing  them.  As  an  editor  he 
was  not  a  brilliant  success. 

In  1857  he  married  Miss  Frances  Dunlap  of  Portland,  Me., 
a  cultivated  lady  who  had  been  the  governess  of  his  daughter. 
She  had  unerring  literary  taste  and  sound  judgment,  and  Mr. 
Lowell  soon  came  to  entrust  to  her  the  management  of  his 
financial  affairs.  She  was  enabled  to  make  their  compara- 
tively small  income  more  than  meet  the  exigencies  of  an 
exacting  position. 

The  second  series  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers,"  relating  to  the 
War  of"  the  Rebellion,  were  first  published  in  the  Atlantic. 
They  w-ere  collected  into  a  volume  in  1865.  That  j-ear  was 
rendered  notable  by  his  "  Commemoration  Ode,"  the  worthy 
crowning  of  one  of  the  grandest  poetic  opportunities  ever 
granted  to  man.  "  Under  the  Willows"  appeared  in  1869; 
"  The  Cathedral"  in  1870. 

In  1864  he  had  issued  a  collection  of  his  early  descriptive 
articles  under  the  title,  "  Fireside  Travels."  In  1870  came 
"  Among  my  Books."  The  second  series  followed  in  1876. 
"My  Study  Windows"  was  published  in  1871.  All  these 
prose  works  were  marked  by  an  exuberant,  vivid,  poetic, 
impassioned  style.      The   tropical  efflorescence   of  imagery 


XIV  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

was  characteristic  of  them  all.     He  ought  to  have  remem- 
bered his  own  epigram, — 

"  Over-ornament  ruins  both  poem  and  prose." 

In  1876  appeared  three  memorial  poems:  that  read  at 
Concord,  April  19,  1875  !  that  read  at  Cambridge  under  the 
Washington  Elm,  July  3,  1875  ;  and  the  Fourth  of  July  Ode 
of  1876.  This  year  .Mr.  Lowell  was  appointed  one  of  the 
presidential  electors  ;  and  the  following  year  President  Hayes 
first  offered  him  the  Austrian  mission,  and,  on  his  refusal  of 
that,  gave  him  the  honorary  post  at  Madrid,  which  had  been 
adorned  by  Everett,  Irving,  and  Prescott.  He  was  there 
three  years,  and,  on  the  retirement  of  .Mr.  Welsh  in  1880,  he 
was  transferred  to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  or,  as  one  of  the 
English  papers  expressed  it,  he  became  "  His  Excellency 
the  Ambassador  of  American  Literature  to  the  Court  of 
Shakespeare." 

He  was  extremely  popular.  Known  in  private  as  "one  of 
the  most  marvellous  of  story-tellers,''  he  became  the  lion 
of  all  public  occasions.  The  London  Neivs  spoke  of  the 
"Extraordinary  felicity  of  his  occasional  speeches."  At 
Birmingham  he  delivered  a  noble  address  on  Democracy. 
He  was  selected  to  deliver  the  oration  at  the  dedication  of 
the  Dean  Stanley  Memorial.  He  spoke  on  Fielding  at 
Taunton,  on  Coleridge  at  Westminster  Abbey,  on  Gray  at 
Cambridge. 

He  was  President  of  the  Wordsworth  Society.  All  sorts 
of  honors  v.ere  heaped  upon  him,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 

He  returned  to  America  in  1885,  and  once  more  occupied 
the  somewhat  dilapidated  mansion  at  Elmwood.  Once  more 
he  moved  amid  his  rare  and  precious  books,  and  heard  the 
birds  singing  in  the  elms  which  his  father  had  planted,  or  in 
the  clustered  bushes  back  of  the  house.  He  took  a  deep 
interest  in  the  struggle  for  international  copyright.  He  was 
President  of  the  American  League,  and  wrote  the  memorable 

lines :  — 

"  In  vain  we  call  old  notions  fudge, 

And  bend  our  conscience  to  our  dealing; 
The  Ten  Commandments  will  not  budge  ; 
And  stealing  ivill  continue  stealing." 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  XV 

He  occupied  the  leisure  of  his  failing  health  in  revising 
his  works.  His  last  volume  of  poems  was  entitled  "  Heart's 
Ease  and  Rue."  One  of  his  latest  poems  "My  Book," 
appeared  in  the  Christmas  number  of  the  New  York  Ledger 
in  1890.  In  the  December  number  of  the  Atlantic  his  hand 
was  visible  in  the  anonymous  "Contributor's  Club."  His 
very  last  poem  is  believed  to  be  the  inscription  for  a  memorial 
bust  of  Fielding. 

'During  the  last  years  his  health  was  a  matter  of  grave 
anxiety  to  his  friends.  In  the  spring  of  1891  he  seemed 
better.  He  was  engaged  m  writing  a  life  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne.  When  the  present  writer  called  to  see  him 
one  beautiful  spring  day,  he  found  him  in  his  library,  at  that 
moment  engaged  in  making  suggestions  for  the  inscriptions 
on  the  new  Boston  Public  Library.  His  manner  was  the 
perfection  of  courtesy  and  high  breeding.  His  keen  eyes 
seemed  to  read  the  very  soul.  The  slight  affectation  of 
English  speech  which  drew  upon  him  some  criticism,  was 
not  evinced  in  private  conversation,  nor  did  the  use  of  the 
little  word  "  I  "  appear  unduly,  as  in  some  of  his  occasional 
speeches.  Simplicity  and  beautiful  dignity,  tempered  by 
evident  feebleness  of  health,  made  him  a  memorable  figure. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  summer  he  suddenly  grew  more 
seriously  ill.  He  suffered  severely,  and  his  last  words  were, 
"  Oh  !  why  don't  you  let  me  die? " 

He  drew  his  last  breath  in  the  early  morning  of  Aug.  12, 
1891.  He  was  buried  at  Mount  Auburn,  in  the  shadow  of 
Indian  Ridge,  not  far  from  Longfellow's  grave,  in  a  lot  unen- 
closed and  marked  by  no  monument. 

Memorial  services  were  held  at  Westminster  Abbey  and 
elsewhere.  Lord  Tennyson  cabled  a  message  of  sympathy  : 
"England  and  America  will  mourn  .Mr.  Lowell's  death. 
They  loved  him  and  he  loved  them."  The  Queen  publicly 
expressed  her  respect  and  sorrow. 

Few  men  have  left  a  deeper  impress  on  their  age.  Few 
men  have  used  noble  powers  more  nobly.  In  private  life 
and  public  station  there  is  not  a  shadow  to  stain  the  white- 
ness  of  his  fame. 


XVI  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

As  a  poet  he  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  those  who  have 
yet  appeared  in  America.  As  a  critic  he  was  generous  and 
just ;  as  a  humorist  he  used  his  shafts  of  ridicule  only  to 
wound  wrong ;  as  a  statesman  and  diplomat  he  was  actuated 
by  broad,  far-seeing  views;  as  a  man  he  was  a  type  to  be 
upheld  and  followed.  America  has  just  cause  to  reverence 
his  memory ;  and  the  whole  English-speaking  world,  without 
geographical  distinction,  claim  him  as  their  own. 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole. 


POEMS. 


APPLEDORE. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 
Butting  against  the  maddened  Atlantic, 

When  surge  after  surge  would  heap  enorme. 
Cliffs  of  Emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lifted  and  lifted  and  then  let  go 

A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 
A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 

Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under  ; 

And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierce  below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  fire. 

You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill, 

And  to  rise  again,  snorting  a  cataract 

Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge. 

While  the  sea  drew  its  breath   in   hoarse  and 
deep. 


2  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mighty  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs  and  breakers, 

You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth  weather. 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling  together ; 
Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island  lies, 
And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise. 
Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 

A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white 

That  glimmer  and  then  are  out  of  sight. 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss. 

While  you  crossed  the  gusty  desert  by  night, 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis, 
And  then  as  sudden  a  darkness  should  follow 
To  gulp  the  whole  scene  at  a  single  swallow. 
The  city's  ghost,  the  drear,  brown  waste, 
And  the  string  of  camels,  clumsy-paced  :  — - 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light. 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide ; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight. 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea. 
And  then  the  light-house  slim  and  lone  ; 
And  whenever  the  whole  weisrht  of  ocean  is  thrown 


APPLEDORE.  I 

Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 

A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  light-house  top, 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  outspread. 

Groping  after  the  little  tower, 

That  seems  to  shrink,  and  shorten  and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden  drop, 

And  silently  and  fruitlessly 

He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you  stand. 
Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and  roar 

And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your  hand, 

As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 
That  was  not  there  a  moment  before. 

Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  heap 
Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 
Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all  — 

Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more; 

If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the  knees 

They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  eprig  of  kelp. 

Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help  ;  — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


TO   THE   DANDELION. 


Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold. 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found. 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth  —  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  Summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease  ; 
'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart  and  heed  not  space  or  time  : 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  Summer-like,  warm  ravishment 


TO    THE  DANDELION.  5 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  in  the  grass, — 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass. 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, — 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  —  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  —  and  of  a  sky  above 
Where  one  white   cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth 
move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with 

thee ; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long. 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety. 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  Heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears. 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

Thou  art  the  type  of  those  meek  charities 
Which  make  up  half  the  nobleness  of  life. 


6  LOWELL'S  FORMS. 

Those  cheap  delights  the  wise 
Pluck  from  the  dusty  wayside  of  earth's  strife ; 
Words  of  frank  cheer,  glances  of  friendly  eyes, 
Love's  smallest  coin,  which  yet  to  some  may  give 

The  morsel  that  may  keep  alive 
A  starving  heart,  and  teach  it  to  behold 
Some  glimpse  of  God  where  all  before  was  cold. 

Thy  winged  seeds,  whereof  the  winds  take  care, 
Are  like  the  words  of  poet  and  of  sage 

Which  through  the  free  heaven  fare. 
And,  now  unheeded,  in  another  age 
Take  root,  and  to  the  gladdened  future  bear 
That  witness  which  the  present  would  not  heed, 

Bringing  forth  many  a  thought  and  deed. 
And,  planted  safely  in  the  eternal  sky. 
Bloom  into  stars  which  earth  is  guided  by. 

Full  of  deep  love  thou  art,  yet  not  more  full 
Than  all  thy  common  brethren  of  the  ground. 

Wherein,  were  we  not  dull, 
Some  words  of  highest  wisdom  might  be  found ; 
Yet  earnest  faith  from  day  to  day  may  cull 
Some  syllables,  which,  rightly  joined,  can  make 

A  spell  to  soothe  life's  bitterest  ache, 
And  ope  Heaven's  portals,  which  are  near  us  still. 
Yea,  nearer  ever  than  the  gates  of  111. 


DARA.  7 

How  like  a  prodigal  cloth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  Heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

But  let  me  read  thy  lesson  right  or  no. 

Of  one  good  gift  from  thee  my  heart  is  sure ; 

Old  I  shall  never  grow 
While  thou  each  year  dost  come  to  keep  me  pure 
With  legends  of  my  childhood ;  ah,  we  owe 
Well  more  than  half  life's  holiness  to  these 

Nature's  first  lowly  influences. 
At  thought  of  which  the  heart's  glad  doors  burst 

ope. 
In  dreariest  days,  to  welcome  peace  and  hope. 


DARA. 


When  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand 
Wilted  by  harem-heats,  and  all  the  land 

Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar. 


8  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Then,  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 
Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills. 

He,  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects  well. 
Made  his  own  village,  by  the  self -same  spell. 

Secure  and  peaceful  as  a  guarded  fold. 
Till,  gathering  strength  by  slow  and  wise  degrees, 
Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 

Order  returned,  and  faith  and  justice  old. 

Now,  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more  wise 
Endued  the  realm  with  brain  and  hands  and  eyes. 

He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave  and  just. 
And  having  heard  the  mountain-shepherd's  praise, 
How  he  rendered  the  mould  of  elder  days, 

To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide. 

Nor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more  pride 

Than  in  his  crook  before  ;  but  Envy  finds 
More  soil  in  cities  than  on  mountains  bare. 
And  the  frank  sun  of  spirits  clear  and  rare 

Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low  and  marish  minds. 

Soon  it  was  whispered  at  the  royal  ear 

That,  though  wise  Dara's  province,  year  by  year. 

Like  a  great  sponge,  drew  wealth  and  plenty  up, 
Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's  behest, 
Some  golden  drops,  more  rich  than  all  the  rest, 

Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 


DARA.  9 

For  proof,  they  said  that  wheresoe'ef  he  went 
A  chest,  beneath  whose  weight  the  camel  bent, 

Went  guarded,  and  no  other  eye  had  seen 
What  was  therein,  save  only  Dara's  own. 
Yet,  when  't  was  opened,  all  his  tent  was  known 

To  glow  and  lighten  with  heapt  jewels'  sheen. 

The  king  set  forth  for  Dara's  province  straight, 
Where,  as  was  fit,  outside  his  city's  gate 

The  viceroy  met  him  with  a  stately  train  ; 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close  at  hand, 
A  camel  with  the  chest  was  seen  to  stand, 

The  king  grew  red,  for  thus  the  guilt  was  plain. 

"  Open  me  now,"  he  cried,  "yon  treasure-chest  !  " 
'T  was  done,  and  only  a  worn  shepherd's  vest 

Was  found  within ;  some  blushed  and  hung  the 
head, 
Not  Dara ;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 
He  stood,  and  "  O,  my  lord,  behold  the  proof 

That  I  was  worthy  of  my  trust ! "  he  said. 

"  For  ruling  men,  lo  !  all  the  charm  I  had  ; 
Mv  soul,  in  those  coarse  vestments  ever  clad. 

Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and  leal, 
Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her  mountain  air. 
And  Fortune's  heaviest  gifts  serenely  bear, 

Which  bend  men  from  the  truth,  and  make  them 
reel. 


lO  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

"  To  govern  wisely  I  had  shown  small  skill 
Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still ; 

That  sceptre  kept,  I  cannot  lose  my  way  !  " 
Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round  and  bright 
And  thrilled  the  trembling  lids  ;  before  't  was  night 

Two  added  provinces  blessed  Dara's  sway. 


TO   J.    F.    H. 

Nine  years  have  slipped  like  hour-glass  sand 

From  life's  fast-emptying  globe  away, 
Since  last,  dear  friend,  I  clasped  your  hand, 
And  lingered  on  the  impoverished  land, 
Watching  the  steamer  down  the  bay. 

I  held  the  keepsake  which  you  gave, 

Until  the  dim  smoke-pennon  curled 
O'er  the  vague  rim  'tween  sky  and  wave, 
And  closed  the  distance  like  a  grave. 
Leaving  me  to  the  outer  world ; 

The  old  worn  world  of  hurry  and  heat, 

The  young,  fresh  world  of  thought  and  scope ; 
While  you,  where  silent  surges  fleet 
Toward  far  sky  beaches  still  and  sweet. 
Sunk  wavering  down  the  ocean-slope. 


TO  J.  F.  H.  II 

Come  back  our  ancient  walks  to  tread, 

Old  haunts  of  lost  or  scattered  friends, 
Amid  the  Muses'  factories  red, 
Where  song,  and  smoke,  and  laughter  sped 
The  nights  to  proctor-hunted  ends. 

Our  old  familiars  are  not  laid, 

Though  snapped  our  wands  and  sunk  our  books, 
They  beckon,  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
Where,  round  broad  meads  which  mowers  wade, 

Smooth  Charles  his  steel-blue  sickle  crooks; 

Where,  as  the  cloudbergs  eastward  blow. 
From  glow  to  gloom  the  hillside  shifts 

Its  lakes  of  rye  that  surge  and  flow, 

Its  plumps  of  orchard-trees  arow. 

Its  snowy  white-weed's  summer  drifts. 

Or  let  us  to  Nantasket,  there 

To  wander  idly  as  we  list. 
Whether,  on  rocky  hillocks  bare. 
Sharp  cedar-points,  like  breakers,  tear 

The  trailing  fringes  of  gray  mist. 

Or  whether,  under  skies  clear-blown. 
The  heightening  surfs  with  foamy  din, 

Their  breeze-caught  forelocks  backward  blown 

Against  old  Neptune's  yellow  zone. 
Curl  slow,  and  plunge  forever  in. 


12  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

For  years  thrice  three,  wise  Horace  said, 

A  poem  rare  let  silence  bind  ; 
And  love  may  ripen  in  the  shade, 
Like  ours,  for  nine  long  seasons  laid 
In  crypts  and  arches  of  the  mind. 

That  right  Falernian  friendship  old 

Will  we,  to  grace  our  feast,  call  up. 
And  freely  pour  the  juice  of  gold. 
That  keeps  life's  pulses  warm  and  bold. 
Till  Death  shall  break  the  empty  cup. 


PROMETHEUS. 

One  after  one  the  stars  have  risen  and  set, 
SparkHng  upon  the  hoarfrost  on  my  chain : 
The  Bear  that  prowled  all  night  about  the  fold 
Of  the  North-Star,  hath  shrunk  into  his  den, 
Scared  by  the  blithesome  footsteps  of  the  Dawn, 
Whose  blushing  smile  floods  all  the  Orient ; 
And  now  bright  Lucifer  grows  less  and  less. 
Into  the  heaven's  blue  quiet  deep  withdrawn. 
Sunless  and  starless  all,  the  desert  sky 
Arches  above  me,  empty  as  this  heart 
For  ages  hath  been  empty  of  all  joy 
Except  to  brood  upon  its  silent  hope, 
As  o'er  its  hope  of  day  the  sky  doth  now. 


PROMETHEUS.  1 3 

All  night  have  I  heard  voices  :  deeper  yet 
The  deep,  low  breathing  of  the  silence  grew, 
While  all  about,  muffled  in  awe,  there  stood 
Shadows,  or  forms,  or  both,  clear-felt  at  heart ; 
But,  when  I  turned  to  front  them,  far  along 
Only  a  shudder  through  the  midnight  ran, 
And  the  dense  stillness  walled  me  closer  round ; 
But  still  I  heard  them  wander  up  and  down 
That  solitude,  and  flappings  of  dusk  wings 
Did  mingle  with  them,  whether  of  those  hags 
Let  slip  upon  me  once  from  Hades  deep, 
Or  of  yet  direr  torments,  if  such  be, 
I  could  but  guess  ;  and  then  toward  me  came 
A  shape  as  of  a  woman  :  very  pale 
It  was,  and  calm  ;  its  cold  eyes  did  not  move, 
And  mine  moved  not,  but  only  stared  on  them. 
Their  moveless  awe  went  through  my  brain  like 

ice; 
A  skeleton  hand  seemed  clutching  at  my  heart. 
And  a  sharp  chill,  as  if  a  dank  night  fog 
Suddenly  closed  me  in,  was  all  I  felt : 
And  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  freezing  sigh, 
A  long,  deep,  shivering  sigh,  as  from  blue  lips 
Stiffening  in  death,  close  to  mine  ear.      I  thought 
Some  doom  was  close  upon  me,  and  I  looked 
And  saw  the  red  moon  through  the  heavy  mist. 
Just  setting,  and  it  seemed  as  it  were  falling, 
Or  reeling  to  its  fall,  so  dim  and  dead 


14  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And    palsy-struck   it    looked.       Then    all    sounds 

merged 
Into  the  rising  surges  of  the  pines, 
Which,  leagues  below  me,  clothing  the  gaunt  loins 
Of  ancient  Caucasus  with  hairy  strength. 
Sent  up  a  murmur  in  the  morning-wind, 
Sad  as  the  wail  that  from  the  populous  earth 
All  day  and  night  to  high  Olympus  soars, 
Fit  incense  to  thy  wicked  throne,  O  Jove. 

Thy  hated  name  is  tossed  once  more  in  scorn 
From  off  my  lips,  for  I  will  tell  thy  doom. 
And  are  these  tears  ?     Nay,  do  not  triumph,  Jove  ! 
They  are  wrung  from  me  but  by  the  agonies 
Of  prophecy,  like  those  sparse  drops  which  fall 
From  clouds  in  travail  of  the  lightning,  when 
The  great  wave  of  the  storm,  high-curled  and  black, 
Rolls  steadily  onward  to  its  thunderous  break. 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou  poor  type 
Of  anger,  and  revenge,  and  cunning  force  "t 
True  Power  was  never  born  of  brutish  Strength, 
Nor  sweet  Truth  suckled  at  the  shaggy  dugs 
Of  that  old  she-wolf.     Are  thy  thunderbolts. 
That  scare  the  darkness  for  a  space,  so  strong 
As  the  prevailing  patience  of  meek  Light, 
Who,  with  the  invincible  tenderness  of  peace. 
Wins  it  to  be  a  portion  of  herself  t 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou,  who  hast 


PROMETHEUS.  1 5 

The  never-sleeping  terror  at  thy  heart, 
That  birthright  of  all  tyrants,  worse  to  bear 
Than  this  thy  ravening  bird  on  which  I  smile  ? 
Thou  swear'st  to  free  me,  if  I  will  unfold 
What  kind  of  doom  it  is  whose  omen  flits 
Across  thy  heart,  as  o'er  a  troop  of  doves 
The  fearful  shadow  of  the  kite.     What  need 
To    know    that    truth    whose  knowledge    cannot 

save  ? 
Evil  its  errand  hath,  as  well  as  Good ; 
When  thine  is  finished,  thou  art  known  no  more  : 
There  is  a  higher  purity  than  thou. 
And  higher  purity  is  greater  strength  ; 
Thy  nature  is  thy  doom,  at  which  thy  heart 
Trembles  behind  the  thick  wall  of  thy  might. 
Let  man  but  hope,  and  thou  art  straightway  chilled 
With  thought  of  that  drear  silence  and  deep  night 
Which,  like  a  dream,  shall  swallow  thee  and  thine; 
Let  man  but  will,  and  thou  art  god  no  more ; 
More  capable  of  ruin  than  the  gold 
And  ivory  that  image  thee  on  earth. 
He  who  hurled  down  the  monstrous  Titan-brood 
Blinded    with    lightnings,    with    rough    thunders 

stunned. 
Is  weaker  than  a  simple  human  thought. 
My  slender  voice  can  shake  thee,  as  the  breeze. 
That  seems  but  apt  to  stir  a  maiden's  hair. 
Sways  huge  Oceanus  from  pole  to  pole  : 


1 6  LO WELL'S  POEMS. 

For  I  am  still  Prometheus,  and  foreknow 
In  my  wise  heart  the  end  and  doom  of  all. 

Yes,  I  am  still  Prometheus,  wiser  grown 

By  years  of  solitude  —  that  holds  apart 

The  past  and  future,  giving  the  soul  room 

To  search  into  itself  —  and  long  commune 

With  this  eternal  silence  —  more  a  god 

In  my  long-suffering  and  strength  to  meet 

With  equal  front  the  direst  shafts  of  fate, 

Than  thou  in  thy  faint-hearted  despotism, 

Girt  with  thy  baby-toys  of  force  and  wrath. 

Yes,  I  am  that  Prometheus  who  brought  down 

The  light  to  man  which  thou  in  selfish  fear 

Had'st  to  thyself  usurped  —  his  by  sole  right. 

For  Man  hath  right  to  all  save  Tyranny  — 

And  which  shall  free  him  yet  from  thy  frail  throne. 

Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  Ignorance, 

Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on. 

Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the  light. 

And  see  that  Tyranny  is  always  weakness. 

Or  Fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease, 

Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand-wove  chain 

Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for  adamant. 

Wrong  ever  builds  on  quicksands,  but  the  Right 

To  the  firm  centre  lays  its  moveless  base. 

The  tyrant  trembles  if  the  air  but  stirs 

The  innocent  ringlets  of  a  child's  free  hair. 


PROMETHEUS.  1/ 

And  crouches,  when  the  thought  of  some  great 

spirit, 
With  world-wide  murmur,  like  a  rising  gale, 
Over  men's  hearts,  as  over  standing  corn. 
Rushes,  and  bends  them  to  its  own  strong  will. 
So  shall  some  thought  of  mine  yet  circle  earth 
And  puff  away  thy  crumbling  altars,  Jove. 
And,  would' st  thou  know  of  my  supreme  revenge, 
Poor  tyrant,  even  now  dethroned  in  heart, 
Realmless  in  soul,  as  tyrants  ever  are, 
Listen  !  and  tell  me  if  this  bitter  peak, 
This  never-glutted  vulture,  and  these  chains 
Shrink  not  before  it  ;  for  it  shall  befit 
A  sorrow-taught,  unconquered  Titan-heart. 
Men,  w^hen  their  death  is  on  them,  seem  to  stand 
On  a  precipitous  crag  that  overhangs 
The  abyss  of  doom,  and  in  that  depth  to  see, 
As  in  a  glass,  the  features  dim  and  huge 
Of  things  to  come,  the  shadows,  as  it  seems. 
Of  what  have  been.     Death  ever  fronts  the  wise. 
Not  fearfully,  but  with  clear  promises 
Of  larger  life,  on  whose  broad  vans  upborne, 
Their  out-look  widens,  and  they  see  beyond 
The  horizon  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
Even  to  the  very  source  and  end  of  thing's. 
Such  am  I  now :  immortal  woe  hath  made 
My  heart  a  seer,  and  my  soul  a  judge 
Between  the  substance  and  the  shadow  of  Truth. 


1 8  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  sure  supremeness  of  the  Beautiful, 
By  all  the  martyrdoms  made  doubly  sure 
Of  such  as  I  am,  this  is  my  revenge. 
Which  of  my  wrongs  builds  a  triumphal  arch 
Through  which  I  see  a  sceptre  and  a  throne. 
The  pipings  of  glad  shepherds  on  the  hills. 
Tending  the  flocks  no  more  to  bleed  for  thee  — 
The  songs  of  maidens  pressing  with  white  feet 
The  vintage  on  thine  altars  poured  no  more  — 
The  murmurous  bliss  of  lovers,  underneath 
Dim  grape-vine  bowers,  whose  rosy  bunches  press 
Not  half  so  closely  their  warm  cheeks,  unscared 
By   thoughts    of    thy   brute    lusts  —  the    hive-like 

hum 
Of  peaceful  commonwealths,  where  sunburnt  Toil 
Reaps  for  itself  the  rich  earth  made  its  own 
By  its  own  labor,  lightened  with  glad  hymns 
To  an  omnipotence  which  thy  mad  bolts 
Would  cope  with  as  a  spark  with  the  vast  sea, 
Even  the  spirit  of  free  love  and  peace. 
Duty's  sure  recompense  through  life  and  death  — 
These  are  such  harvests  as  all  master-spirits 
Reap,  haply  not  on  earth,  but  reap  no  less 
Because  the  sheaves  are  bound  by  hands  not  theirs ; 
These  are. the  bloodless  daggers  wherewithal 
They  stab  fallen  tyrants,  this  their  high  revenge  : 
For  their  best  part  of  life  on  earth  is  when. 
Long  after  death,  prisoned  and  pent  no  more, 


PROMETHEUS.  1 9 

Their    thoughts,   their  wild    dreams    even,   have 

become 
Part  of  the  necessary  air  men  breathe ; 
When,  like  the  moon,  herself  behind  a  cloud, 
They  shed  down  light  before  us  on  life's  sea, 
That  cheers  us  to  steer  onward  still  in  hope. 
Earth  with  her  twining  memories  ivies  o'er 
Their  holy  sepulchres,  the  chainless  sea 
In  tempest  or  wide  calm  repeats  their  thoughts. 
The  lightning  and  the  thunder,  all  free  things. 
Have  legends  of  them  for  the  ears  of  men. 
AH  other  glories  are  as  falling  stars, 
But  universal  Nature  watches  theirs  ; 
Such  strength  is  won  by  love  of  human  kind. 

Not  that  I  feel  that  hunger  after  fame. 

Which  souls  of  a  half-greatness  are  beset  with  ; 

But  that  the  memory  of  noble  deeds 

Cries  shame  upon  the  idle  and  the  vile, 

And  keeps  the  heart  of  Man  forever  up 

To  the  heroic  level  of  old  time. 

To  be  forgot  at  first  is  little  pain 

To  a  heart  conscious  of  such  high  intent 

As  must  be  deathless  on  the  lips  of  men ; 

But,  having  been  a  name,  to  sink  and  be 

A  something  which  the  world  can  do  without. 

Which,  having  been  or  not,  would  never  change 

The  lightest  pulse  of  fate  —  this  is  indeed 


20  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

A  cup  of  bitterness  the  worst  to  taste, 

And  this  thy  heart  shall  empty  to  the  dregs. 

Oblivion  is  lonelier  than  this  peak  — 

Behold  thy  destiny  !     Thou  think'st  it  much 

That  I  should  brave  thee,  miserable  god ! 

But  I  have  braved  a  mightier  than  thou, 

Even  the  temptings  of  this  soaring  heart 

Which  might  have  made  me,   scarcely  less   than 

thou, 
A  god  among  my  brethren  weak  and  blind. 
Scarce  less  than  thou,  a  pitiable  thing. 
To  be  down-trodden  into  darkness  soon; 
But  now  I  am  above  thee,  for  thou  art 
The  bungling  workmanship  of  fear,  the  block 
That  scares  the  swart  Barbarian  ;  but  I 
Am  what  myself  have  made,  a  nature  wise 
With  finding  in  itself  the  types  of  all,  — 
With  watching  from  the  dim  verge  of  the  time 
What  things  to  be  are  visible  in  the  gleams 
Thrown  forward  on  them  from  the  luminous  past  — 
Wise  with  the  history  of  its  own  frail  heart. 
With  reverence  and  sorrow,  and  with  love 
Broad  as  the  world  for  freedom  and  for  man. 

Thou  and  all  strength  shall  crumble,  except  Love, 
By  whom  and  for  whose  glory  ye  shall  cease  : 
And,  when  thou  art  but  a  dim  moaning  heard 
From  out  the  pitiless  glooms  of  Chaos,  I 


PRO  ME  THE  US.  2 1 

Shall  be  a  power  and  a  memory, 

A  name  to  scare  all  tyrants  with,  a  light 

Unsetting  as  the  pole-star,  a  great  voice 

Heard  in  the  breathless  pauses  of  the  fight 

By  truth  and  freedom  ever  waged  with  wrong, 

Clear  as  a  silver  trumpet,  to  awake 

Huge  echoes  that  from  age  to  age  live  on 

In  kindred  spirits,  giving  them  a  sense 

Of    boundless    power    from    boundless    suffering 

wrung. 
And  many  a  glazing  eye  shall  smile  to  see 
The  memory  of  my  triumph  (for  to  meet 
Wrong  with  endurance,  and  to  overcome 
The  present  with  a  heart  that  looks  beyond, 
Are  triumph),  like^a  prophet  eagle,  perch 
Upon.the  sacred  banner  of  the  right. 
Evil  springs  up,  and  flowers,  and  bears  no  seed. 
And  feeds  the  green  earth  with  its  swift  decay, 
Leaving  it  richer  for  the  growth  of  truth  ; 
But  Good,  once  put  in  action  or  in  thought. 
Like  a  strong  oak,  doth  from  its  boughs  shed  down 
The  ripe  germs  of  a  forest.     Thou,  weak  god, 
Shalt  fade  and  be  forgotten  ;  but  this  soul. 
Fresh-living  still  in  the  serene  abyss. 
In  every  heaving  shall  partake,  that  grows 
From  heart  to  heart  among  the  sons  of  men  — 
As  the  ominous  hum  before  the  earthquake  runs 
Far  throufrh  the  yE2:ean  from  roused  isle  to  isle  — 


22  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Foreboding  wreck  to  palaces  and  shrines, 
And  mighty  rents  in  many  a  cavernous  error 
That  darkens  the  free  light  to  man  :  —  This  heart 
Unscarred  by  thy  grim  vulture,  as  the  truth 
Grows  but  more  lovely  'neath  the  beaks  and  claws 
Of  Harpies  blind  that  fain  would  soil  it,  shall 
In  all  the  throbbing  exultations  share 
That  wait  on  freedom's  triumphs,  and  in  all 
The  glorious  agonies  of  martyr-spirits  — 
Sharp  lightning-throes  to  split  the  jagged  clouds 
That  veil  the  future,  showing  them  the  end  — 
Pain's  thorny  crown  for  constancy  and  truth. 
Girding  the  temples  like  a  wreath  of  stars. 
This  is  a  thought,  that,  like  the  fabled  laurel. 
Makes  my  faith  thunder-proof,  apd  thy  dread  bolts 
Fall  on  me  like  the  silent  flakes  of  snow 
On  the  hoar  brows  of  aged  Caucasus : 
But,  O  thought  far  more  blissful,  they  can  rend 
This  cloud  of  flesh,  and  make' my  soul  a  star  ! 

Unleash  thy  crouching  thunders  now,  O  Jove  ! 
Free  this  high  heart  which,  a  poor  captive  long, 
Doth  knock  to  be  let  forth,  this  heart  which  still, 
In  its  invincible  manhood,  overtops 
Thy  puny  godship  as  this  mountain  doth 
The  pines  that  moss  its  roots.      O  even  now. 
While  from  my  peak  of  suffering  I  look  down, 
Beholding  with  a  far-spread  gush  of  hope 


PROMETHEUS.  23 

The  sunrise  of  that  Beauty  in  whose  face, 

Shone  all  around  with  love,  no  man  shall  look 

But  straightway  like  a  god  he  is  uplift 

Unto  the  throne  long  empty  for  his  sake, 

And  clearly  oft  foreshadowed  in  wide  dreams 

By  his  free  inward  nature,  which  nor  thou. 

Nor  any  anarch  after  thee,  can  bind 

From  working  its  great  doom  —  now,  now  set  free 

This  essence,  not  to  die,  but  to  become 

Part  of  that  awful  Presence  which  doth  haunt 

The  palaces  of  tyrants,  to  scare  off, 

With  its  grim  eyes  and  fearful  whisperings 

And  hideous  sense  of  utter  loneliness, 

All  hope  of  safety,  all  desire  of  peace. 

All  but  the  loathed  forefeeling  of  blank  death  — 

Part  of  that  spirit  which  doth  ever  brood 

In  patient  calm  on  the  unpilfered  nest 

Of   man's   deep  heart,  till  mighty  thoughts  grow 

fledged 
To  sail  with  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  world. 
Until  they  swoop,  and  their  pale  quarry  make 
Of  some  o'erbloated  wrong  —  that  spirit  which 
Scatters  great  hopes  in  the  seed-field  of  man, 
Like  acorns  among  grain,  to  grow  and  be 
A  roof  for  freedom  in  all  coming  time. 

But  no,  this  cannot  be ;  for  ages  yet, 
In  solitude  unbroken,  shall  I  hear 


24  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

The  angry  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  shout, 
And  Euxine  answer  with  a  muffled  roar, 
On  either  side  storming  the  giant  walls 
Of  Caucasus  with  leagues  of  climbing  foam, 
(Less,  from  my  height,  than  flakes  of  downy  snow), 
That  draw  back  baffled  but  to  hurl  again. 
Snatched  up  in  wrath  and  horrible  turmoil, 
Mountain  on  mountain,  as  the  Titans  erst, 
My  brethren,  scaling  the  high  seat  of  Jove, 
Heaved  Pelion  upon  Ossa's  shoulders  broad. 
In  vain  emprise.     The  moon  will  come  and  go 
With  her  monotonous  vicissitude  ; 
Once  beautiful,  when  I  was  free  to  walk 
Among  my  fellows  and  to  interchange 
The  influence  benign  of  loving  eyes, 
But  now  by  aged  use  grown  wearisome  ;  — 
False  thought  !  most  false  !  for  how  could  I  endure 
These  crawling  centuries  of  lonely  woe 
Unshamed  by  weak  complaining,  but  for  thee. 
Loneliest,  save  me,  of  all  created  things, 
Mild-eyed  Astarte,  my  best  comforter. 
With  thy  pale  smile  of  sad  benignity  ? 
Year  after  year  will  pass  away  and  seem 
To  me,  in  mine  eternal  agony, 
But  as  the  shadows  of  dumb  summer-clouds. 
Which  I  have  watched  so  often  darkening  o'er 
The  vast  Sarmatian  plain,  league-wide  at  first. 
But,  with  still  swiftness,  lessening  on  and  on 


PRO  ME  THE  US.  2  5 

Till  cloud  and  shadow  meet  and  mingle  where 

The  gray  horizon  fades  into  the  sky, 

Far,  far  to  northward.     Yes,  for  ages  yet 

Must  I  lie  here  upon  my  altar  huge, 

A  sacrifice  for  man.      Sorrow  will  be, 

As  it  hath  been,  his  portion  ;  endless  doom. 

While  the  immortal  with  the  mortal  linked 

Dreams  of  its  wings  and  pines  for  what  it  dreams 

With  upward  yearn  unceasing.      Better  so  : 

For  wisdom  is  meek  sorrow's  patient  child, 

And  empire  over  self,  and  all  the  deep 

Strong  charities  that  make  men  seem  like  gods  ; 

And  love,  that  makes  them  be  gods,  from  her  breasts 

Sucks  in  the  milk  that  makes  mankind  one  blood. 

Good  never  comes  unmixed,  or  so  it  seems. 

Having  two  faces,  as  some  images 

Are  carved,  of  foolish  gods  ;  one  face  is  ill, 

But  one  heart  lies  beneath,  and  that  is  good, 

As  are  all  hearts,  when  we  explore  their  depths. 

Therefore,  great  heart,  bear  up !  thou  art  but  type 

Of  what  all  lofty  spirits  endure,  that  fain 

Would   win    men    back    to    strength    and   peace 

through  love  : 
Each  hath  his  lonely  peak,  and  on  each  heart 
Envy,  or  scorn,  or  hatred,  tears  lifelong 
With  vulture  beak  ;  yet  the  high  soul  is  left, 
And  faith,  which  is  but  hope  grown  wise,  and  love. 
And  patience  which  at  last  shall  overcome. 
Camertdge,  Mass.,  June,  1S43. 


26  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

ROSALINE. 

Thou  look'd'st  on  me  all  yesternight, 
Thine  eyes  were  blue,  thy  hair  was  bright 
As  when  we  murmured  our  trothplight 
Beneath  the  thick  stars,  Rosaline  ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed. 
Mine  eyes  scarce  knew  if  thou  wert  dead  — 
But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  Rosaline  ! 

The  deathwatch  tickt  behind  the  wall. 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall. 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 
Among  the  bleak  pines,  Rosaline  ! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears  : 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears. 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears, 
Its  eyes  are  lidless,  Rosaline  ! 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die  — 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  Rosaline  ! 

A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 

A  love  quite  withered  up  and  gone, 

A  strong  soul  trampled  from  its  throne  — 

What  would'st  thou  further,  Rosaline ! 


ROSALINE.  27 

'T  is  lone  such  moonless  nights  as  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 
And  then  thou  comest,  Rosaline  ! 
I  seem  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumes  a-nodding  to  and  fro, 
As  once  I  heard  them,  Rosaline ! 

Thy  shroud  it  is  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  standest  moveless  and  upright, 
Gazing  upon  me,  Rosaline  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes. 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise  — 
Oh,  God  !  her  gentle  spirit  tries 
To  deem  me  guiltless,  Rosaline ! 

Above  thy  grave  the  Robin  sings, 
And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 
Flit  all  about  with  sunlit  wings  — 
ButT  am  cheerless,  Rosaline! 
The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss. 
The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss, 
For  nature  feels  not  any  loss  — 
But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline  ! 

Ah  !  why  wert  thou  so  lowly  bred  ? 
Why  was  my  pride  galled  on  to  wed 


28  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

Her  who  brought  lands  and  gold  instead 
Of  thy  heart's  treasure,  Rosaline  ! 
Why  did  I  fear  to  let  thee  stay 
To  look  on  me  and  pass  away 
Forgivingly,  as  in  its  May, 
A  broken  flower,  Rosaline  ! 

I  thought  not,  when  my  dagger  strook, 

Of  thy  blue  eyes  ;  I  could  not  brook 

Tlie  past  all  pleading  in  one  look 

Of  utter  sorrow,  Rosaline  ! 

I  did  not  know  when  thou  wert  dead  : 

A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 

Thrilled  through  my  brain ;  I  would  have  fled 

But  dared  not  leave  thee,  Rosaline  ! 

A  low,  low  moan,  a  light  twig  stirred 

By  the  upspringing  of  a  bird, 

A  drip  of  blood  —  were  all  I  heard  - — 

Then  deathly  stillness,  Rosaline  ! 

The  sun  rolled  down,  and  very  soon, 

Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 

Rose,  stained  with  blood,  and  then  a  swoon 

Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  Rosaline  ! 

The  stars  came  out  ;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Looked  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done  : 
I  dared  not  hide  me,  Rosaline ! 


ROSALINE.  29 

I  crouched  ;  I  feared  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  God's  quiet  sky, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  bkie  lips  try 
To  utter  something,  Rosaline  ! 

I  waited  with  a  maddened  grin 

To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 

Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  heaven,  Rosaline  ! 

But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seemed 

That  if  the  very  corpse  had  screamed 

The  sound  like  sunshine  glad  had  streamed 

Through  that  dark  stillness,  Rosaline ! 

Dreams  of  old  quiet  glimmered  by. 
And  faces  loved  in  infancy 
Came  and  looked  on  me  mournfully. 
Till  my  heart  melted,  Rosaline  ! 
I  saw  my  mother's  dying  bed, 
I  heard  her  bless  me,  and  I  shed 
Cool  tears  —  but  lo  !  the  ghastly  dead 
Stared  me  to  madness,  Rosaline  ! 

And  then  amid  the  silent  night 
I  screamed  with  horrible  delight, 
And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 
Did  seem  to  crackle,  Rosaline  ! 
It  is  m)''  curse  !  sweet  mem'ries  fall 
From  me  like  snow  —  and  only  all 


30  LOWELUS  POEMS. 

Of  that  one  night,  like  cold  worms  crawl 
My  doomed  heart  over,  Rosaline  ! 

Thine  eyes  are  shut :  they  nevermore 
Will  leap  thy  gentle  words  before 
To  tell  the  secret  o'er  and  o'er 
Thou  could'st  not  smother,  Rosaline  ! 
Thine  eyes  are  shut :  they  will  not  shine 
With  happy  tears,  or,  through  the  vine 
That  hid  thy  casement,  beam  on  mine 
Sunfull  with  gladness,  Rosaline  ! 

Thy  voice  I  nevermore  shall  hear. 
Which  in  old  times  did  seem  so  dear, 
That,  ere  it  trembled  in  mine  ear. 
My  quick  heart  heard  it,  Rosaline  ! 
Would  I  might  die !     I  were  as  well. 
Ay,  better,  at  my  home  in  hell. 
To  set  for  aye  a  burning  spell 
'Twixt  me  and  memory,  Rosaline ! 

Why  wilt  thou  haunt  me  with  thine  eyes, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories. 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies. 
Than  hate  more  bitter,  Rosaline  ! 
Woe  's  me !  I  know  that  love  so  high 
As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clay  in  churchyard  lie  — 
Would  God  it  were  so,  Rosaline ! 


A    GLANCE  BEHIND    THE   CURTAIN.        3 1 

SONNET. 

If  some  small  savor  creep  into  my  rhyme 
Of  the  old  poets,  if  some  words  I  use, 
Neglected  long,  which  have  the  lusty  thews 
Of  that  gold-haired  and  earnest-hearted  time, 
Whose  loving  joy  and  sorrow  all  sublime 
Have  given  our  tongue  its  starry  eminence,  — 
It  is  not  pride,  God  knows,  but  reverence 
Which  hath  grown  in  me  since  my  childhood's 

prime  ;    • 
Wherein  I  feel  that  my  poor  lyre  is  strung 
With  soul-strings  like  to  theirs,  and  that  I  have 
No  right  to  muse  their  holy  graves  among. 
If  I  can  be  a  custom-fettered  slave. 
And,  in  mine  own  true  spirit,  am  not  brave 
To  speak  what  rusheth  upward  to  my  tongue. 


A   GLANCE   BEHIND    THE    CURTAIN. 

We  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 
Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life. 
And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spirit-world 
Which,  though  unseen,  is  felt,  and  sows  ir.  us 
All  germs  of  pure  and  world-wide  purposes. 
From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 
We  pass  unconscious  o'er  a  slender  bridge. 


32  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands, 
Which  crumbles  down  behind  us  ;  looking  back, 
We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  between. 
And,  marvelling  how  we  won  to  where  we  stand. 
Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder  Chance. 
We  trace  the  wisdom  to  the  apple's  fall. 
Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 
The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest  years, 
And  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight  more 
To  blossom  fully. 

But  whence  came  that  ray  ? 
We  call  our  sorrows  destiny,  but  ought 
Rather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of  great  souls  are  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway  :  all  other  things, 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  Destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving  in  us,  the  last  fragment  left 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 
Within  our  thought  to  beckon  us  beyond 
The  narrow  circle  of  the  seen  and  known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end. 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the  soul, 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman,  Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom  once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one  plain  man ; 
One  step  of  his,  and  the  great  dial-hand 


A    GLANCE  BEHIND    THE   CURTAIN.        33 

That  marks  the  destined  progress  of  the  world 

In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 

To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to  pause 

A  hundred  years.     That  step  he  did  not  take  — 

He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only  God  — 

And  lived  to  make  his  simple  oaken  chair 

More  terrible  and  grandly  beautiful, 

More  full  of  majesty,  than  any  throne. 

Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern-visaged  men, 
Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay  moored, 
Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the  Thames, 
Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listlessness. 
Grave  men    they  were,   and    battlings    of    fierce 

thought 
Had  scared  away  all  softness  from  their  brows, 
And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there   before  their 

time. 
Care,  not  of  self,  but  of  the  common  weal. 
Had  robbed  their  eyes  of  youth,  and  left  instead 
A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will. 
And  something  fiercer,  too,  that  gave  broad  hint 
Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their  sides. 
The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  command  — 
Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender  stream. 
In  the  shrunk  channel  of  a  great  descent  — 
But  such  as  lies  entowered  in  heart  and  head. 


34  LOWELUS  POEMS. 

And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  'hests  of  both. 
His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out  of  place, 
And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a  crown 
(Though  he  despised  such),  were  it  only  made 
Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff 
That  would  have  matched  his  sinewy  brown  face. 
The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly  seemed 
(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short  years), 
Bore  a  clear,  honest  face,  where  scholarship 
Had  mildened  somewhat  of  its  rougher  strength. 
To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 
The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well-taught  mind, 
Yet  left  it  so  as  one  could  plainly  guess 
The  pent  volcano  smouldering  underneath. 
He  spoke  :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his  gaze 
Still  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the  sky. 

"  O  Cromw^ell,  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times  ! 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had  wide  room 
For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings  ; 
But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the  time 
Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.     Therefore  let  us 
Seek  out  that  savage  clime  where  men  as  yet 
Are  free  :  there  sleeps  the  vessel  on  the  tide, 
Her  languid  sails  but  drooping  for  the  wind : 
All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the  Lord 
Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  Exodus 
Of  us  his  servants  now,  as  m  old  time. 


A    GLAXCE  BEHIXD    THE    CCRTAIX.        35 

We  have  no  cloud  or  fire,  and  haply  we 
May  not  pass  dryshod  through  the  ocean-stream  ; 
But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  His  hand." 
So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other  stood 
With  wide,  gray  eyes  still  reading  the  blank  air, 
As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 
Some  mystic  sentence  written  by  a  hand 
Such  as  of  old  did  scare  the  Assyrian  king, 
Girt  with  his  satraps  in  the  blazing  feast. 

"  Hampden,  a  moment  since,  my  purpose  was 
To  fly  with  thee  — for  I  will  call  it  flight. 
Nor  flatter  it  with  any  smoother  name  — 
But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to  go  ; 
And  I  am  one,  thou  knowest,  who,  unscared 
By  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet  give  heed 
And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my  soul 
Whispers  of  warning  to  the  inner  ear. 
Why  should  we  fly  ?     Nay,  why  not  rather  stay 
And  rear  again  our  Zion's  crumbled  walls. 
Not  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were  built 
By  minstrel  twanging,  but,  if  need  should  be, 
With  the  more  potent  music  of  our  swords  .'' 
Think'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond  the  sea 
Claim  more  God's  care  than  all  of  England  here .? 
No  :  when  He  moves  His  arm,  it  is  to  aid 
Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be  crushed. 
As  some  are  ever  when  the  destiny 


36  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Of  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer  home. 
Believe  it,  't  is  the  mass  of  men  He  loves, 
And  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and  most  want, 
Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden  down 
The  most,  't  is  not  because  He  hides  His  face 
From  them  in  wrath,  as  purblind  teachers  prate. 
Not  so  :  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is  He 
Most  needed.     Men  who  seek  for  Fate  abroad 
Are  not  so  near  His  heart  as  they  who  dare 
Frankly  to  face  her  where  she  faces  them. 
On  their  own    threshold,   where  their  souls  are 

strong 
To  grapple  with  and  throw  her,  as  I  once. 
Being  yet  a  boy,  did  throw  this  puny  king. 
Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to  deem 
That  he  can  wrestle  with  an  angry  realm, 
And  throw  the  brawned  Antaeus  of  men's  rights. 
No,  Hampden  ;  they  have  half-way  conquered  Fate 
Who  go  half-way  to  meet  her  —  as  will  I. 
Freedom  hath  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do ; 
So  speaks  that  inward  voice  which  never  yet 
Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit  on 
To  noble  deeds  for  country  and  mankind. 

"  What  should  we  do  in  that  small  colony 
Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather  choose 
Freedom  to  clip  an  inch  more  from  their  hair 
Than  the  crreat  chance  of  setting:  Enoland  free } 


A    GLANCE  BEHIXD    THE   CURTAIN.        37 

Not  there  amid  the  stormy  wilderness 

Should  we  learn  wisdom  ;  or,  if  learned,  what  room 

To  put  it  into  act  —  else  worse  than  naught  ? 

We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an  hour 

Upon  this  huge  and  ever  vexed  sea 

Of  human  thought,  where  kingdoms  go  to  wreck 

Like  fragile  bubbles  yonder  in  the  stream. 

Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 

Broke  only  by  some  petty  Indian  war, 

Or  quarrel  for  a  letter,  more  or  less. 

In  some  hard  word,  which,  spelt  in  either  way. 

Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  understand. 

New  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men  ; 

The  world  advances,  and  in  time  outgrows 

The  laws  that  in  our  father's  day  were  best ; 

And,  doubtless,  after  us,  some  purer  scheme 

Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than  we. 

Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth  of  truth. 

We  cannot  bring  Utopia  at  once  ; 

But  better  almost  be  at  work  in  sin 

Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and  sleep. 

No  man  is  born  into  the  world  whose  work 

Is  not  born  with  him  ;  there  is  always  work. 

And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who  will  ; 

And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil ! 

The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 

The  man  who  stands  with  arms  a-kimbo  set, 

Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do  ; 


38  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out, 
Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 
Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds. 
Reason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas. 
Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  arms 
Across  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 
And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 
The  field  lies  wide  before  us,  where  to  reap 
The  easy  harvest  of  a  deathless  name. 
Though  with  no  better  sickles  than  our  swords. 
My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past, 
Where  outworn  creeds,  like  Rome's  gray  senate 

quake, 
Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse, 
That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 
The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change ; 
Then  let  it  come  :  I  have  no  dread  of  what 
Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind. 
Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  would  fall  apart 
Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  efifluence, 
With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour ; 
Her  mirror  is  turned  forward,  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth. 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain  :  there  is  more  force  in  names 
Than  most  men  dream  of ;  and  a  lie  may  keep 


A    GLANCE   BEHhVD    THE   CURT  A IX.         39 

Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Lqt  us  call  tyrants  tyrants,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  his  grace  must  fall ; 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 

"  I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with  the  man 
Charles  Stuart :  whom  the  boy  o'ercame, 
The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.     I  perchance 
Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 
To  witness  some  great  truth  to  all  the  world. 
Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 
And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme  of  God, 
Have  a  foreconsciousness  of  their  high  doom, 
As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart. 
When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming  ill 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirits  unawares  : 
Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than  111  .■' 
How  else  could  men  whom  God  hath  called  to  sway 
Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  barque  of  Truth, 
Beating  against  the  wind  toward  her  port. 
Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  grievances. 
The  petty  martyrdoms  wherewith  Sin  strives 
To  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith, 
The  sneers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of  friends, 
Who  worship  the  dead  corpse  of  old  king  Custom, 


40  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Where  it  doth  lie  in  state  within  the  Church, 
Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 
With  a  man's  pahn,  and  making  even  the  truth 
Lie  for  them,  holding  up  the  glass  reversed, 
To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  further  off  ? 
My  God  !  when  I  read  o'er  the  bitter  lives 
Of  men  whose  eager  hearts  were  quite  too  great 
To  beat  beneath  the  cramped  mode  of  the  day, 
And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world  they  love, 
Haggling  with  prejudice  for  pennyworths 
Of  that  reform  which  their  hard  toil  will  make 
The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to  come  — 
When  I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in  God, 
I  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so  long  ; 
Nor  could  they,  but  for  this  same  prophecy. 
This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 

"  Deem  me  not  fond  ;  but  in  my  warmer  youth, 

Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and  brushed  away, 

I  had  great  dreams  of  mighty  things  to  come  ; 

Of  conquest  ;  whether  by  the  sword  or  pen, 

I  knew  not  ;  but  some  conquest  I  would  have. 

Or  else  swift  death  :  now,  wiser  grown  in  years, 

I  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  flutterings 

Of  those  strong  wings  whereon  the  soul  shall  soar 

In  after  time  to  win  a  starry  throne  ; 

And  therefore  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots 

Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 


A    GLANCE  BEHIND    THE    CURTAIN.        4 1 

Nor  will  I  draw  them,  since  a  man's  right  hand, 
A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul, 
With  a  true  instinct,  takes  the  golden  prize 
From  out  a  thousand  blanks.     What  men  call  luck, 
Is  the  prerogative  of  valiant  souls, 
The  fealty  life  pays  its  rightful  kings. 
The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will  stay 
To  pluck  my  lot  forth  ;  it  were  sin  to  flee  !  " 

So  they  two  turned  together ;  one  to  die 
Fighting  for  freedom  on  the  bloody  field  ; 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her  heart ; 
One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 
With  the  true  Makers  ;  for  his  spirit  wrought  ' 
Order  from  Chaos  ;  proved  that  right  divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  Truth  ; 
And  far  within  old  Darkness'  hostile  lines 
Advanced  and  pitched  the  shining  tents  of  Light. 
Nor  shall  the  grateful  Muse  forget  to  tell. 
That  —  not  the  least  among  his  many  claims 
To  deathless  honor  —  he  was  Milton's  friend, 
A  man  not  second  among  those  who  lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre  demands 
An  arm  of  toucher  sinew  than  the  sword. 


42  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

A    SONG. 

Violet  !  sweet  violet ! 
Thine  eyes  arc  full  of  tears  ; 
Are  they  wet 
Even  yet 
With  the  thought  of  other  years, 
Or  with  gladness  are  they  full, 
For  the  night  so  beautiful. 
And  longing  for  those  far-off  spheres  ? 

Loved  one  of  my  youth  thou  wast, 
Of  my  merry  youth. 
And  I  see, 
Tearfully, 
All  the  fair  and  sunny  past, 
All  its  openness  and  truth. 
Ever  fresh  and  green  in  thee 
As  the  moss  is  in  the  sea. 

Thy  little  heart,  that  hath  with  love 
Grown  colored  like  the  sky  above. 
On  which  thou  lookest  ever,  — 
Can  it  know 
All  the  woe 
Of  hope  for  what  returncth  never, 
All  the  sorrow  and  the  lono:in2: 
To  these  hearts  of  ours  belono:in2: ! 


THE  MOON.  43 

Out  on  it !  no  foolish  pining 

For  the  sky 

Dims  thine  eye, 
Or  for  the  stars  so  calmly  shining ; 
Like  thee  let  this  soul  of  mine 
Take  hue  from  that  wherefor  I  long, 
Self-stayed  and  high,  serene  and  strong. 
Not  satisfied  with  hoping  —  but  divine. 

Violet !  dear  Violet ! 

Thy  blue  eyes  are  only  wet 
With  joy  and  love  of  him  who  sent  thee, 
And  for  the  fulfilling  sense 
Of  that  glad  obedience 
Which  made  thee  all  which  Nature  meant  thee ! 


THE   MOON. 

My  soul  was  like  the  sea 
Before  the  moon  was  made; 
Moaning  in  vague  immensity, 
.   Of  its  own  strength  afraid, 
Unrestful  and  unstaid. 

Through  every  rift  it  foamed  in  vain 

About  its  earthly  prison. 
Seeking  some  unknown  thing  in  pain, 
And  sinking  restless  back  again. 

For  yet  no  moon  had  risen  : 


44  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Its  only  voice  a  vast  dumb  moan 
Of  utterless  anguish  speaking, 
It  lay  unhopefully  alone 
And  lived  but  in  an  aimless  seeking. 

So  was  my  soul  :  but  when  't  was  full 

Of  unrest  to  o'erloading, 
A  voice  of  something  beautiful 

Whispered  a  dim  foreboding, 
And  yet  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
It  had  not  more  of  joy  than  woe  : 
And,  as  the  sea  doth  oft  lie  still, 

Making  his  waters  meet. 
As  if  by  an  unconscious  will, 

For  the  moon's  silver  feet. 
Like  some  serene,  unwinking  eye 
That  waits  a  certain  destiny, 
So  lay  my  soul  within  mine  eyes 
When  thou  its  sovereign  moon  didst  rise. 

And  now,  howe'er  its  waves  above 

May  toss  and  seem  uneaseful, 
One  strong,  eternal  law  of  love 

With  guidance  sure  and  peaceful, 
As  calm  and  natural  as  breath 
Moves  its  great  deeps  through  Life  and  Death. 


THE   FATHERLAND.  45 


THE   FATHERLAND. 


Where  is  the  true  man's  fatherland  ? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born  ? 

Doth  not  the  free-winged  spirit  scorn 
In  such  pent  borders  to  be  spanned  ? 

Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heavens  wide  and  free ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man  ? 
Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 

For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this  ? 
Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heavens  wide  and  free  ! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 
Joy's  myrtle  wreath,  or  sorrow's  gyves, 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  life  more  pure  and  fair. 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand ! 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another  — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother! 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine ; 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand  ! 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 


46  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

A    PARABLE. 

Worn  and  footsore  was  the  Prophet 
When  he  reached  the  holy  hill ; 

"God  has  left  the  earth,"  he  murmured, 
"  Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

"  God  of  all  the  olden  prophets, 
Wilt  thou  talk  with  me  no  more  ? 

Have  I  not  as  truly  loved  thee 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore  ? 

"  Hear  me,  guider  of  my  fathers, 
Lo,  an  humble  heart  is  mine ; 

By  thy  mercy  I  beseech  thee. 
Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign  !  " 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 
For  an  answer  to  his  prayer ; 

No  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed. 
Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air : 

But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 
Opened  while  he  waited  yet. 

And  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom 
Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

"  God  !  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  Prophet, 
"  Hard  of  heart  and  blind  was  I, 

Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 
For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 


A    PARABLE.  47 

"  Still  thou  speakest  with  thy  children 

Freely  as  in  Eld  sublime, 
Humbleness  and  love  and  patience 

Give  dominion  over  Time. 

"  Had  I  trusted  in  my  nature, 

And  had  faith  in  lowly  things. 
Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought  me, 

And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings. 

"  But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders 
That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway  ; 

Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 

"  Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 

As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ran  to  me  my  little  daughter, 

The  beloved  of  my  heart  ; 

"  In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

Like  to  this  as  like  may  be. 
Which  beside  my  very  threshold 

She  had  plucked  and  brought  to  me." 


48  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

ON    THE   DEATH    OF   A   FRIEND'S    CHILD. 

Death  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  before, 

Nor  showed  me  his  mild  face :     Oft  I  had  mused 

Of  calm  and  peace  and  deep  forgetfulness, 

Of  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  heart  at  rest, 

And  slumber  sound  beneath  a  flowery  turf, 

Of  faults  forgotten,  and  an  inner  place 

Kept  sacred  for  us  in  the  heart  of  friends  ; 

But  these  were  idle  fancies  satisfied 

With  the  mere  husk  of  this  great  Mystery, 

And  dwelling  in  the  outward  shows  of  things. 

Heaven  is  not  mounted  to  on  wings  of  dreams. 

Nor  doth  the  unthankful  happiness  of  youth 

Aim  thitherward,  but  floats  from  bloom  to  bloom. 

With  earth's  warm  patch  of  sunshine  well  content  : 

'T  is  sorrow  builds  the  shining  ladder  up 

Whose  golden  rounds  are  our  calamities. 

Whereon  our  firm  feet  planting,  nearer  God 

The  spirit  climbs,  and  hath  its  eyes  unsealed. 

True  is  it  that  Death's  face  seems  stern  and  cold, 
When  he  is  sent  to  summon  those  we  love. 
But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  disguised ; 
Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death, 
One  after  other  lift  their  frowning  masks. 
And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  beneath. 
All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 


ON  THE   DEATH   OF  A   FRIEXD'S   CHHD.      49 

Of  having  looked  upon  the  smile  of  God. 

With  every  anguish  of  our  earthly  past 

The  spirit's  sight  grows  clearer ;  this  was  meant 

When  Jesus  touched  the  blind  man's  lids  with  clay. 

Life  is  the  jailer,  Death  the  angel  sent 

To  draw  the  unwilling  bolts  and  set  us  free. 

He  flings  not  ope  the  ivory  gate  of  Rest  — 

Only  the  fallen  spirit  knocks  at  that  — 

But  to  benigner  regions  beckons  us, 

To  destinies  of  more  rewarded  toil. 

In  the  hushed  chamber,  sitting  by  the  dead, 

It  grates  on  us  to  hear  the  flood  of  life 

Whirl  rustling  onward,  senseless  of  our  loss. 

The  bee  hums  on  ;  around  the  blossomed  vine 

Whirs  the  light  humming-bird  ;  the  cricket  chirps  ; 

The  locust's  shrill  alarum  stings  the  ear ; 

Hard  by,  the  cock  shouts  lustily ;   from  farm  to 

farm. 
His  cheery  brothers,  telling  of  the  sun. 
Answer,  till  far  away  the  joyance  dies  ; 
We  never  knew  before  how  God  had  filled 
The  summer  air  with  happy  living  sounds  ; 
All  round  us  seems  an  overplus  of  life. 
And  yet  the  one  dear  heart  lies  cold  and  still. 
It  is  most  strange,  when  the  great  Miracle 
Hath  for  our  sakes  been  done  ;  when  we  have  had 
Our  inwardest  experience  of  God, 


50  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

When  with  his  presence  still  the  room  expands, 
And  is  awed  after  him,  that  naught  is  changed. 
That  Nature's  face  looks  unacknowledging, 
And  the  mad  world  still  dances  heedless  on 
After  its  butterflies,  and  gives  no  sigh. 
'T  is  hard  at  first  to  see  it  all  aright ; 
In  vain  Faith  blows  her  trump  to  summon  back 
Her  scattered  troop;    yet,   through    the   clouded 

glass 
Of  our  own  bitter  tears,  we  learn  to  look 
Undazzled  on  the  kindness  of  God's  face  ; 
Earth  is  too  dark,  and  Heaven  alone  shines  through. 

How  changed,  dear  friend,  are   thy  part   and  thy 

child's  ! 
He  bends  above  tJiy  cradle  now,  or  holds 
His  warning  finger  out  to  be  thy  guide  ; 
Thou  art  the  nursling  now  ;  he  watches  thee 
Slow  learning,  one  by  one,  the  secret  things 
Which  are  to  him  used  sights  of  every  day  ; 
He  smiles  to  see  thy  wondering  glances  con 
The  grass  and  pebbles  of  the  spirit  world, 
To  thee  miraculous  ;  and  he  will  teach 
Thy  knees  their  due  observances  of  prayer. 

Children  are  God's  apostles,  day  by  day, 

Sent  forth  to  preach  of  love,  and  hope,  and  peace ; 

Nor  hath  thy  babe  his  mission  left  undone. 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A    RAILROAD    CAR.       5  I 

To  me,  at  least,  his  going  hence  hath  given 
Serener  thoughts  and  nearer  to  the  skies, 
And  opened  a  new  fountain  in  my  heart 
For  thee,  my  friend,  and  all :  and  oh,  if  Death 
More  near  approaches,  meditates,  and  clasps 
Even  now  some  dearer,  more  reluctant  hand, 
God,  strengthen  thou  my  faith,  that  I  may  see 
That  't  is  thine  angel  who,  with  loving  haste, 
Unto  the  service  of  the  inner  shrine 
Doth  waken  thy  beloved  with  a  kiss  ! 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  Sept.  3,  1844. 


AN    INCIDENT    IN   A   RAILROAD    CAR. 

He  spoke  of  Burns  :  men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 

Whose  breast  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned 
And  heard,  with  eager  hearts  and  ears. 

His  birdlike  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe. 
Sunlike  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 

As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 


52  LOWELL'S  POEMS.  ^ 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong, 

And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  strong 

In  high  Humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence, 
Promptings  their  former  life  above. 

And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side, 

Freely  among  his  children  all. 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide 

Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  sows  some  seeds 

Of  a  more  true  and  open  life. 
Which  burst  unlooked  for  into  high-souled  deeds 

With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 

Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bears  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 

These  promises  of  wider  bliss. 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 

In  sunny  hours  like  this. 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A   RAILROAD   CAR.       S3 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 

In  life  or  death  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 

The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus  among  the  untaught  poor 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home 

Which  casts  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  or  Rome. 

Oh  !  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 

Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high. 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 

O'er-roof  infinity. 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul. 

And,  from  the  many,  slowly  upward  wing 
To  One  who  grasps  the  whole. 

In  his  broad  breast,  the  feeling  deep 
Which  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue, 

Swells  to  a  tide  of  Thought  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  throne  of  wrong. 

Never  did  poesy  appear 

So  full  of  Heav'n  to  me  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and  fear, 

To  lives  of  coarsest  men. 


54  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 

Once  in  a  century. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 

One  simple  word  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 

And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  Art, 

Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  unlearned  heart. 
Boston,  April,  1842. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FIRE  AT  HAMBURGH. 

The  tower  of  old  Saint  Nicholas  soared  upward  to 

the  skies. 
Like  some  huge  piece  of  nature's  make,  the  growth 

of  centuries ; 
You  could  not  deem  its  crowding  spires  a  work  of 

human  art, 
They  seemed   to   struggle  lightward    so    from    a 

sturdy  living  heart. 


AN  INCIDENT  AT  HAMBURGH.  55 

Not  Nature's  self  more  freely  speaks  in  crystal  or 

in  oak 
Than,  through  the  pious   builder's   hand,  in  that 

gray  pile  she  spoke  ; 
And  as  from  acorn  springs  the  oak,  so,  freely  and 

alone. 
Sprang  from  his  heart  this  hymn  to  God,  sung  in 

obedient  stone. 


It  seemed  a  wondrous  freak  of  chance,  so  perfect, 

yet  so  rough, 
A  whim  of  Nature  crystallized  slowly  in  granite 

tough  ; 
The  thick  spires  yearned  toward  the  sky  in  quaint 

harmonious  lines. 
And  in  broad  sunlight  basked  and   slept,  like   a 

grove  of  blasted  pines. 


Never  did  rock  or  stream  or  tree  lay  claim  with 

better  right 
To  all  the  adorning  sympathies  of  shadow  and  of 

light  ; 
And,   in  that  forest   petrified,   as  forester    there 

dwells 
Stout  Herman,  the  old  sacristan,  sole  lord  of  all 

its  bells. 


56  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

Surge  leaping  after  surge,  the  fire  roared  onward, 

red  as  blood, 
Till  half  of   Hamburgh  lay  engulfed  beneath  the 

eddying  flood  ; 
For  miles  away,  the  fiery  spray  poured  down  its 

deadly  rain. 
And  back  and  forth  the  billows  drew,  and  paused, 

and  broke  asain. 


From  square  to  square,  with  tiger  leaps,  still  on 

and  on  it  came  ; 
The  air  to  leeward  trembled  with  the  pantings  of 

the  flame. 
And  church   and  palace,  which   even  now  stood 

whelmed  but  to  the  knee. 
Lift  their  black  roofs  like  breakers  lone  amid  the 

rushing  sea. 


Up  in  his  tower  old  Herman  sat  and  watched  with 

quiet  look  ; 
His  soul  had  trusted  God  too  long  to  be  at  last 

forsook  : 
He  could  not  fear,  for  surely  God  a  pathway  would 

unfold 
Through  this  red  sea,  for  faithful  hearts,  as  once 

he  did  of  old. 


A  AT  INCIDENT  AT  HA  MB  UR  GH.  5  7 

But  scarcely  can  he  cross  himself,  or  on  his  good 
saint  call, 

Before  the  sacrilegious  flood  o'erleaped  the  church- 
yard wall. 

And,  ere  a  pater  half  was  said,  'mid  smoke  and 
crackling  glare, 

His  island  tower  scarce  juts  its  head  above  the 
wide  despair. 


Upon  the  peril's  desperate  peak  his  heart  stood 

up  sublime  ; 
His  first  thought  was  for  God  above,  his  next  was 

for  his  chime  ; 
"  Sing  now,  and  make  your  voices  heard  in  hymns 

of  praise,"  cried  he, 
"  As  did  the  Israelites  of  old,  safe-walking  through 

the  sea ! 


"  Through  this  red  sea  our  God  hath  made  our 

pathway  safe  to  shore  ; 
Our  promised  land  stands  full  in  sight  ;  shout  now 

as  ne'er  before." 
And,  as  the  tower  came  crashing  down,  the  bells, 

in  clear  accord, 
Pealed  forth  the  grand  old  German  hymn  —  "  All 

good  souls  praise  the  Lord  !  " 


58  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

SONNETS. 

I, 

As  the  broad  ocean  endlessly  upheaveth, 
With  the  majestic  beating  of  his  heart, 
The  mighty  tides,  whereof  its  rightful  part 
Each  sea-wide  gulf  and  little  weed  receiveth  — 
So,  through  his  soul  who  earnestly  believeth. 
Life  from  the  universal  Heart  doth  flow, 
Whereby  some  conquest  of  the  eternal  woe 
By  instinct  of  God's  nature  he  achieveth  : 
A  fuller  pulse  of  this  all-powerful  Beauty 

Into  the  poet's  gulf-like  heart  doth  tide, 
And  he  more  keenly  feels  the  glorious  duty 

Of  serving  Truth  despised  and  crucified  — 
Happy,  unknowing  sect  or  creed,  to  rest 
And  feel  God  flow  forever  through  his  breast. 


II. 

« 

Once  hardly  in  a  cycle  blossometh 

A  flower-like  soul  ripe  with  the  seeds  of  song, 
A  spirit  foreordained  to  cope  with  wrong, 

Whose  divine  thoughts  are  natural  as  breath, 

Who  the  old  Darkness  thickly  scattereth 

With  starry  words  which  shoot  prevailing  light 
Into  the  deeps,  and  wither  with  the  blight 

Of  serene  Truth  the  coward  heart  of  Death  : 


SONNETS.  59 

Woe  if  such  spirit  sell  his  birthright  high, 
And  mock  with  lies  the  longing  soul  of  man  ! 

Yet  one  age  longer  must  true  Culture  lie, 
Soothing  her  bitter  fetters  as  she  can, 

Until  new  messages  of  love  outstart 

At  the  next  beating  of  the  infinite  Heart. 

III. 

The  love  of  all  things  springs  from  love  of  one  ; 

Wider  the  soul's  horizon  hourly  grows, 

And  over  it  with  fuller  glory  flows 
The  sky -like  spirit  of  God ;  a  hope  begun 
In  doubt  and  darkness,  'neath  a  fairer  sun 

Cometh  to  fruitage,  if  it  be  of  Truth  ; 

And  to  the  law  of  meekness,  faith,  and  ruth. 
By  inward  sympathy  shall  all  be  won  : 
This  thou  shouldst  know,  who  from  the  painted 
feature 

Of  shifting  Fashion,  couldst  thy  brethren  turn 
Unto  the  love  of  ever  youthful  nature, 

And  of  a  beauty  fadeless  and  eterne  ; 
And  always  't  is  the  saddest  sight  to  see 
An  old  man  faithless  in  Humanity. 

IV. 

A  poet  cannot  strive  for  despotism  ; 

His  harp  falls  shattered  ;  for  it  still  must  be 
The  instinct  of  great  spirits  to  be  free, 


6o  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

And  the  sworn  foes  of  cunning  barbarism. 
He  who  has  deepest  searched  the  wide  abysm 

Of  that  life-giving  Soul  wliich  men  call  fate, 

Knows  that  to  put  more  faith  in  lies  and  hate 
Than  truth  and  love,  is  the  worst  atheism  : 
Upward  the  soul  forever  turns  her  eyes  ; 

The  next  hour  always  shames  the  hour  before ; 
One  beauty  at  its  highest  prophesies 

That  by  whose  side  it  shall  seem  mean  and  poor  ; 
No  Godlike  thing  knows  aught  of  less  and  less. 
But  widens  to  the  boundless  Perfectness. 


V. 

Therefore  think  not  the  Past  is  wise  alone, 
For  Yesterday  knows  nothing  of  the  Best, 
And  thou  shalt  love  it  only  as  the  nest 

Whence  glory-winged  things  to  Heaven  have  flown. 

To  the  great  Soul  alone  are  all  things  known, 
Present  and  future  are  to  her  as  past. 
While  she  in  glorious  madness  doth  forecast 

That  perfect  bud  which  seems  a  flower  full-blown 

To  each  new  Prophet,  and  yet  always  opes 
Fuller  and  fuller  with  each  day  and  hour. 

Heartening  the  soul  with  odor  of  fresh  hopes. 
And  longings  high  and  gushings  of  wide  power 

Yet  never  is  or  shall  be  fully  blown 

Save  in  the  forethought  of  the  Eternal  One. 


THE    UXHAPPy  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT.      6 1 

VI. 

Far  'yoncl  this  narrow  parapet  of  Time, 

With  eyes  uplift,  the  poet's  soul  should  look 
Into  the  Endless  Promise,  nor  should  brook 

One  prying  doubt  to  shake  his  faith  sublime  ; 

To  him  the  earth  is  ever  in  her  prime 
And  dewiness  of  morning ;  he  can  see 
Good  lying  hid,  from  all  eternity, 

Within  the  teeming  womb  of  sin  and  crime  ; 

His  soul  shall  not  be  cramped  by  any  bar  — 
His  nobleness  should  be  so  Godlike  high 

That  his  least  deed  is  perfect  as  a  star, 
His  common  look  majestic  as  the  sky, 

And  all  o'erfiooded  with  a  light  from  far, 

Undimmed  by  clouds  of  weak  mortality. 
Boston',  April  2,  1842. 


THE   UNHAPPY   LOT   OF   MR.    KNOTT. 


Showing  how  he  built  his  house  and  his  ivife  moved  into  it. 

My  worthy  friend,  A.  Gordon  Knott, 

From  business  snug  withdrawn, 
Was  much  contented  with  a  lot 
Which  would  contain  a  Tudor  cot 
Twixt  twelve  feet  square  of  garden-plot, 

And  twelve  feet  more  of  lawn. 


62  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

He  had  laid  business  on  the  shelf 

To  give  his  taste  expansion, 
And,  since  no  man,  retired  with  pelf, 

The  building  mania  can  shun, 
Knott,  being  middle-aged  himself. 
Resolved  to  build  (unhappy  elf !) 

A  mediaeval  mansion. 

He  called  an  architect  in  counsel ; 

"  I  want,"  said  he,  "a  —  you  know  what, 
(You  are  a  builder,  I  am  Knott,) 

A  thing  complete  from  chimney-pot 
Down  to  the  very  groundsel ; 

Here  's  a  half-acre  of  good  land ; 

Just  have  it  nicely  mapped  and  planned 
And  make  your  workmen  drive  on ; 

Meadow  there  is,  and  upland  too, 

And  I  should  like  a  water-view, 
D'  you  think  you  could  contrive  one  ? 

(Perhaps  the  pump  and  trough  would  do. 

If  painted  a  judicious  blue  ?) 

The  woodland  I  've  attended  to  ;  " 

(He  meant  three  pines  stuck  up  askew. 
Two  dead  ones  and  a  live  one.) 

"  A  pocket-full  of  rocks  't  would  take 
To  build  a  house  of  free-stone. 

But  then  it  is  not  hard  to  make 
What  nowadays  is  the  stone  ; 


THE    Ui\ HAPPY  LOT   OF  MR.  KNOTT.      63 

The  cunning  painter  in  a  trice 

Your  house's  outside  petrifies, 

And  people  think  it  very  gneiss 
Without  inquiring  deeper  ; 

My  money  never  shall  be  thrown 

Away  on  such  a  deal  of  stone, 
When  stone  of  deal  is  cheaper." 

And  so  the  greenest  of  antiques 

Was  reared  for  Knott  to  dwell  in ; 
The  architect  worked  hard  for  weeks 
In  venting  all  his  private  peaks 
Upon  the  roof,  whose  crop  of  leaks 

Had  satisfied  Fluellen. 
Whatever  anybody  had 
Out  of  the  common,  good  or  bad, 

Knott  had  it  all  worked  well  in, 
A  donjon-keep,  where  clothes  might  dry, 
A  porter's  lodge  that  was  a  sty, 
A  campanile  slim  and  high. 

Too  small  to  hang  a  bell  in  ; 

All  up  and  down  and  here  and  there, 
With  Lord-knows-whats  of  round  and  square 
Stuck  on  at  random  everywhere, 
It  was  a  house  to  make  one  stare, 

All  corners  and  all  gables  ; 
Like  dogs  let  loose  upon  a  bear. 
Ten  emulous  styles,  staboycd  with  care, 


64  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

The  whole  among  them  seemed  to  tear, 
And  all  the  oddities  to  spare 
Were  set  upon  the  stables. 

Knott  was  delighted  with  a  pile 

Approved  by  fashion's  leaders; 
(Only  he  made  the  builder  smile 
By  asking  every  little  while, 
Why  that  was  called  the  Twodoor  style 

Which  certainly  had  three  doors  ?) 
Yet  better  for  this  luckless  man 
If  he  had  put  a  downright  ban 

Upon  the  thing  in  liinine ; 
For,  though  to  quit  affairs  his  plan, 
Ere  many  days,  poor  Knott  began 
Perforce  accepting  draughts,  that  ran 

All  ways  —  except  up  chimney  ; 
The  house,  though  painted  stone  to  mock, 
With  nice  white  lines  round  every  block, 

Some  trepidation  stood  in. 
When  tempests  (with  petrific  shock, 
So  to  speak)  made  it  really  rock. 

Though  not  a  whit  less  wooden  ; 
And  painted  stone,  howe'er  well  done. 
Will  not  take  in  the  prodigal  sun 
Whose  beams  are  never  quite  at  one 

With  our  terrestrial  lumber  ; 
So  the  wood  shrank  around  the  knots. 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      6$ 

And  gaped  in  disconcerting  spots, 
And  there  were  lots  of  dots  and  rots 

And  crannies  without  number, 
Wherethrough,  as  you  may  well  presume, 
The  wind,  like  water  through  a  flume. 

Came  rushing  in  ecstatic, 
Leaving,  in  all  three  floors,  no  room 

That  was  not  a  rheumatic  ; 
And,  what  with  points  and  squares  and  rounds 

Grown  shaky  on  their  poises. 
The  house  at  night  was  full  of  pounds, 
Thumps,  bumps,   creaks,    scratchings,   raps  —  till 

—  "  Zounds !  " 
Cried  Knott,  "this  goes  beyond  all  bounds, 
I  do  not  deal  in  tongues  and  sounds. 
Nor  have  I  let  my  house  and  grounds 

To  a  family  of  Noyeses  !  " 

But  though  Knott's  house  was  full  of  airs, 

He  had  but  one  —  a  daughter  ; 
And,  as  he  owned  much  stocks  and  shares, 
Many  who  wished  to  render  theirs 
Such  vain,  unsatisfying  cares, 
And  needed  wives  to  sew  their  tears. 

In  matrimony  sought  her ; 
They  vowed  her  gold  they  wanted  not. 

Their  faith  would  never  falter, 
They  longed  to  tie  this  single  Knott 

In  the  Hymeneal  halter ; 


66  LOWELVS  POEMS. 

So  daily  at  the  door  they  rang, 

Cards  for  the  belle  delivering, 
Or  in  the  choir  at  her  they  sang. 
Achieving  such  a  rapturous  twang 

As  set  her  nerves  a-shivering. 

Now  Knott  had  quite  made  up  his  mind 

That  Colonel  Jones  should  have  her ; 
No  beauty  he,  but  oft  we  find 
Sweet  kernels  'neath  a  roughish  rind. 
So  hoped  his  Jenny  'd  be  resigned 

And  make  no  more  palaver ; 
Glanced  at  the  fact  that  love  was  blind. 
That  girls  were  ratherish  inclined 

To  pet  their  little  crosses, 
Then  nosologically  defined 
The  rate  at  which  the  system  pined 
In  those  unfortunates  who  dined 
Upon  that  metaphoric  kind 

Of  dish  ■ —  their  own  proboscis. 

But  she,  with  many  tears  and  moans, 
Besought  him  not  to  mock  her. 

Said  't  was  too  much  for  flesh  and  bones, 

To  marry  mortgages  and  loans. 

That  fathers'  hearts  were  stocks  and  stones, 

And  that  she  'd  go,  when  Mrs.  Jones, 
To  Davy  Jones's  locker  ; 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT.      67 

Then  gave  her  head  a  little  toss 
Xhat  said  as  plain  as  ever  was, 
If  men  are  always  at  a  loss 

Mere  womankind  to  bridle  — 
To  try  the  thing  on  woman  cross, 

Were  fifty  times  as  idle  ; 
For  she  a  strict  resolve  had  made 

And  registered  in  private. 
That  either  she  would  die  a  maid. 
Or  else  be  Mrs.  Dr.  Slade, 

If  woman  could  contrive  it ; 
And,  though  the  wedding-day  was  set, 

Jenny  was  more  so,  rather. 
Declaring,  in  a  pretty  pet. 
That,  howsoe'er  they  spread  their  net, 
She  would  outjennyral  them  yet. 

The  colonel  and  her  father. 
Just  at  this  time  the  Public's  eyes 

Were  keenly  on  the  watch,  a  stir 
Beginning  slowly  to  arise 
About  those  questions  and  replies, 
Those  raps  that  unwrapped  mysteries 

So  rapidly  at  Rochester. 
And  Knott,  already  nervous  grown 
By  lying  much  awake  alone, 
And  listening,  sometimes  to  a  moan, 

And  sometimes  to  a  clatter. 
Whene'er  the  wind  at  night  would  rouse 


68  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  ginger-bread-work  on  his  house, 
Or  when  some  hasty-tempered  mouse, 
Behind  the  plastering  made  a  towse 

About  a  family  matter. 
Began  to  wonder  if  his  wife, 
A  paralytic  half  her  life, 

Which  made  it  more  surprising. 
Might  not,  to  rule  him  from  her  urn. 
Have  taken  a  peripatetic  turn 

For  want  of  exorcising. 

This  thought,  once  nestled  in  his  head. 

Ere  long  contagious  grew,  and  spread 

Infecting  all  his  mind  with  dread, 

Until  at  last  he  lay  in  bed 

And  heard  his  wife,  with  well-known  tread, 

Entering  the  kitchen  through  the  shed, 

(Or  was  't  his  fancy  mocking  ?) 
Opening  the  pantry,  cutting  bread. 
And  then  (she  'd  been  some  ten  years  dead) 

Closets  and  drawers  unlocking  ; 
Or,  in  his  room,  (his  breath  grew  thick) 
He  heard  the  long  familiar  click 
Of  slender  needles  flying  quick. 

As  if  she  knit  a  stocking ;  — 
For  whom  ? —  he  prayed  that  years  might  flit 

With  pains  rheumatic  shooting. 
Before  those  ghostly  things  she  knit 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      69 

Upon  his  unfleshed  sole  might  fit, 
He  did  not  fancy  it  a  bit, 

To  stand  upon  that  footing ; 
At  other  times,  his  frightened  hairs 

Above  the  bed-clothes  trusting, 
He  heard  her,  full  of  household  cares, 
(No  dream  entrapped  in  supper's  snares, 
The  foal  of  horrible  nightmares, 
But  broad  awake,  as  he  declares,) 
Go  bustling  up  and  down  the  stairs. 
Or  setting  back  last  evening's  chairs, 

Or  with  the  poker  thrusting 
The  raked-up  sea-coal's  hardened  crust  — 
And  —  what  !  impossible  !  it  must  ! 
He  knew  she  had  returned  to  dust. 
And  yet  could  scarce  his  senses  trust. 
Hearing  her  as  she  poked  and  fussed 

About  the  parlor,  dusting  ! 

Night  after  night  he  strove  to  sleep 

And  take  his  ease  in  spite  of  it  ; 
But  still  his  flesh  would  chill  and  creep, 
And,  though  two  night-lamps  he  might  keep. 

He  could  not  so  make  light  of  it. 
At  last,  quite  desperate,  he  goes 
And  tells  his  neighbors  all  his  woes, 

Which  did  but  their  amount  enhance  ; 
They  made  such  mockery  of  his  fears, 


70  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

That  soon  his  days  were  of  all  jeers, 

His  nights  of  the  rueful  countenance  ; 
"  I  thought  most  folks,"  one  neighbor  said, 
"  Gave  up  the  ghost  when  they  were  dead," 
Another  gravely  shook  his  head. 

Adding,  "  from  all  we  hear,  it 's 
Quite  plain  poor  Knott  is  going  mad  — 
For  how  can  he  at  once  be  sad 

And  think  he  's  full  of  spirits  ?  " 
A  third  declared  he  knew  a  knife 

Would  cut  this  Knott  much  quicker, 
"  The  surest  way  to  end  all  strife, 
And  lay  the  spirit  of  a  wife, 

Is  just  to  take  and  lick  her  !  " 
A  temperance  man  caught  up  the  word, 
"  Ah,  yes,"  he  groaned,  "  I  've  always  heard 

Our  poor  friend  always  slanted 
Tow'rd  taking  liquor  overmuch  ; 
I  fear  these  spirits  may  be  Dutch, 
(A  sort  of  gins,  or  something  such,) 

With  which  his  house  is  haunted ; 
I  see  the  thing  as  clear  as  light  — 
If  Knott  would  give  up  getting  tight. 

Naught  farther  would  be  wanted  : " 
So  all  his  neighbors  stood  aloof 
And,  that  the  spirits  'neath  his  roof 
Were  not  entirely  up  to  proof. 

Unanimously  granted. 


THE    U.XHAi'PY  LOT  OF  MR.  KNOTT.     7 1 

Knott  knew  that  cocks  and  sprites  were  foes, 
And  so  bought  up,  Heaven  only  knows 
How  many,  though  he  wanted  crows 
To  give  ghosts  cause,  as  I  suppose, 

To  think  that  day  was  breaking  ; 
Moreover,  what  he  called  his  park. 
He  turned  into  a  kind  of  ark, 
For  dogs,  because  a  little  bark 
Is  a  good  tonic  in  the  dark. 

If  one  is  given  to  waking  ; 
But  things  went  on  from  bad  to  worse, 
His  curs  were  nothing  but  a  curse. 

And,  what  was  still  more  shocking. 
Foul  ghosts  of  living  fowl  made  scoff 
And  would  not  think  of  going  off 

In  spite  of  all  his  cocking. 

Shanghais,  Bucks-counties,  Dominiques, 
Malays  (that  did  n't  lay  for  weeks), 

Polanders,  Bantams,  Dorkings, 
Waiving  the  cost,  no  trifling  ill, 
(Since  each  brought  in  his  little  bill) 
By  day  or  night  were  never  still, 
But  every  thought  of  rest  would  kill 

With  cacklings  and  with  quorkings  ; 
Henry  the  Eighth  of  wives  got  free 

By  a  way  he  had  of  axing  ; 
But  poor  Knott's  Tudor  henery 


72  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

Was  not  so  fortunate,  and  he 

Still  found  his  trouble  waxing ; 
As  for  the  dogs,  the  rows  they  made, 
And  how  they  howled,  snarled,  barked,  and  bayed, 

Beyond  all  human  knowledge  is  ; 
All  night,  as  wide  awake  as  gnats, 
The  terriers  rumpused  after  rats. 
Or,  just  for  practice,  taught  their  brats 
To  worry  cast-off  shoes  and  hats. 
The  bull-dogs  settled  private  spats, 
All  chased  imaginary  cats. 
Or  raved  behind  the  fence's  slats 
At  real  ones,  or,  from  their  mats, 
With  friends  miles  off,  held  pleasant  chats, 
Or,  like  some  folks  in  white  cravats. 
Contemptuous  of  sharps  and  flats, 

Sat  up  and  sang  dogsologies. 


Showing  what  is  meant  by  a  flow  of  Spirits. 

At  first  the  ghosts  were  somewhat  shy, 
Coming  when  none  but  Knott  was  nigh, 
And  people  said  't  was  all  their  eye, 
(Or  rather  his)  a  flam,  the  sly 

Digestion's  machination  ; 
Some  recommended  a  wet  sheet. 
Some  a  nice  broth  of  pounded  peat, 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT.      JZ 

Some  a  cold  flat-iron  to  the  feet, 
Some  a  decoction  of  lamb's-bleat  ; 
Some  a  southwesterly  grain  of  wheat  ; 
Meat  was  by  some  pronounced  unmeet, 
Others  thought  fish  most  indiscreet, 
And  that  't  was  worse  than  all  to  eat 
Of  vegetables,  sour  or  sweet, 
(Except,  perhaps,  the  skin  of  beet,) 

In  such  a  concatenation  : 
One  quack  his  button  gently  plucks 
And  murmurs  "biliary  ducks  !  " 

Says  Knott,  "  I  never  ate  one  ;  " 
But  all,  though  brimming  full  of  wrath, 
Homeo,  Alio,  Hydropath, 
Concurred  in  this  — that  tother's  path 

To  death's  door  was  the  straight  one. 
But,  spite  of  medical  advice, 
The  ghosts  came  thicker,  and  a  spice 

Of  mischief  grew  apparent ; 
Nor  did  they  only  come  at  night. 
But  seemed  to  fancy  broad  daylight, 
Till  Knott,  in  horror  and  affright, 

His  unoffending  hair  rent ; 
Whene'er,  with  handkerchief  on  lap. 
He  made  his  elbow-chair  a  trap 
To  catch  an  after-dinner  nap. 
The  spirits,  always  on  the  tap. 
Would  make  a  sudden  rap,  rap,  rap, 


74  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

The  half-spun  cord  of  life  to  snap, 
(And  what  is  life  without  its  nap 
But  threadbareness  and  mere  mishap  ?) 
As  't  were  with  a  percussion  cap 

The  trouble's  climax  capping  ; 
It  seemed  a  party  dried  and  grim 
Of  mummies  had  come  to  visit  him, 
Each  getting  off  from  every  limb 

Its  multitudinous  wrapping ; 
Scratchings  sometimes  the  walls  ran  round, 
The  merest  penny-weights  of  sound  ; 
Sometimes  't  was  only  by  the  pound 

They  carried  on  their  dealing, 
A  thumping  'neath  the  parlor  floor. 
Thump  —  bump  —  thump  —  bumping  o'er  and  o'er, 
As  if  the  vegetables  in  store, 
(Quiet  and  orderly  before,) 

Were  all  together  pealing  ; 
You  would  have  thought  the  thing  was  done 
By  the  Spirit  of  some  son  of  a  gun. 

And  that  a  forty-two  pounder, 
Or  that  the  ghost  which  made  such  sounds 
Could  be  none  other  than  John  Pounds, 

Of  Ragged  Schools  the  founder. 

Through  three  gradations  of  affright. 
The  awful  noises  reached  their  height ; 
At  first  they  knocked  nocturnally, 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      75 

Then,  for  some  reason,  changing  quite, 
(As  mourners,  after  six  months'  flight, 
Turn  suddenly  from  dark  to  light,) 

Began  to  knock  diurnally. 
And  last,  combining  all  their  stocks, 
(Scotland  was  ne'er  so  full  of  Knox,) 
Into  one  Chaos,  (father  of  Nox,) 
Node  phiit  —  they  showered  knocks, 

And  knocked,  knocked,  knocked  eternally  ; 
Ever  upon  the  go,  like  buoys, 
(Wooden  sea-urchins),  all  Knott's  joys. 
They  turned  to  trouble  and  a  noise 

That  preyed  on  him  internally. 

Soon  they  grew  wider  in  their  scope  ; 
Whenever  Knott  a  door  would  ope, 
It  would  ope  not,  or  else  elope 
And  fly  back  (curbless  as  a  trope 
Once  started  down  a  stanza's  slope 
By  a  bard  that  gave  it  too  much  rope — ) 

Like  a  clap  of  thunder  slamming  ; 
And,  when  kind  Jenny  brought  his  hat, 
(She  always,  when  he  walked,  did  that,) 
Just  as  upon  his  head  it  sat, 
Submitting  to  his  settling  pat  — 
Some  unseen  hand  would  jam  it  flat, 
Or  give  it  such  a  furious  bat 

That  eyes  and  nose  went  cramming 


^6  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

Up  out  of  sight,  and  consequently, 
■  As  when  in  life  it  paddled  free, 

His  beaver  caused  much  damning  ; 

If  these  things  seem  o'erstrained  to  be, 

Read  the  account  of  Doctor  Dee, 

'T  is  in  our  college  library ; 

Read  Wesley's  circumstantial  plea, 

And  Mrs.  Crow,  more  like  a  bee, 

Sucking  the  nightshade's  honied  fee, 

And  Stilling's  Pneumatology ; 

Consult  Scot,  Glanvil,  grave  Wie- 

rus,  and  both  Mathers  ;  further,  see 

Webster,  Casaubon,  James  First's  trea- 
tise, a  right  royal  Q.  E.  D. 

Writ  with  the  moon  in  perigee, 

Bodin  de  Demonomanie 

(Accent  that  last  line  gingerly) 

All  full  of  learning  as  the  sea 

Of  fishes,  and  all  disagree, 

Save  in  SatJianas  apage  ! 

Or,  what  will  surely  put  a  flea 

In  unbelieving  ears  —  with  glee, 

Out  of  a  paper  (sent  to  me 

By  some  friend  who  forgot  to  P  .  .   , 

A  .  .  .  Y  .  .  .  —  I  use  cryptography 

Lest  I  his  vengeful  pen  should  dree  — 

His  P  ...  O  ...  S  ...  T  ...  A  ...  G  ...  E) 
Thinc:s  to  the  same  effect  I  cut, 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      TJ 

About  the  tantrums  of  a  ghost, 

Not  more  than  three  weeks  since,  at  most, 

Near  Stratford,  in  Connecticut. 

[Heavens  !  what  a  sentence  that  is  ! 

I  throw  it  in,  though,  gratis, 

And,  taking  breath,  anew 

Catch  up  my  legend's  clew.] 
Knott's  Upas  daily  spread  its  roots, 
Sent  up  on  all  sides  livelier  shoots. 
And  bore  more  pestilential  fruits  ; 
The  ghosts  behaved  like  downright  brutes, 
They  snipped  holes  in  his  Sunday  suits. 
Practised  all  night  on  octave  flutes. 
Put  peas  (not  peace)  into  his  boots. 

Whereof  grew  corns  in  season, 
They  scotched  his  sheets,  and,  what  was  worse. 
Stuck  his  silk  night-cap  full  of  burs, 
Till  he,  in  language  plain  and  terse, 
(But  much  unlike  a  Bible  verse), 

Swore  he  should  lose  his  reason. 

Of  course  such  doings,  far  and  wide, 
With  rumors  filled  the  country-side. 
And  (as  it  is  our  nation's  pride. 
To  think  a  Truth  's  not  verified 
Till  with  majorities  allied,) 
Parties  sprung  up,  affirmed,  denied, 
And  candidates  with  questions  plied, 


78  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Who  like  the  circus-riders,  tried 
At  once  both  hobbies  to  bestride, 
And  each  with  his  opponent  vied 

In  being  inexplicit. 
Earnest  inquirers  multiplied  ; 
Folks,  whose  tenth  cousins  lately  died, 
Wrote  letters  long,  and  Knott  replied  ; 
All  who  could  either  walk  or  ride, 
Gathered  to  wonder  or  deride, 

And  paid  the  house  a  visit ; 
Horses  were  at  his  pine-trees  tied. 
Mourners  in  every  corner  sighed, 
Widows  brought  children  there  that  cried, 
Swarms  of  lean  Seekers,  eager-eyed, 
(People  Knott  never  could  abide,) 
Into  each  hole  and  cranny  pried 
With  strings  of  questions  cut  and  dried 
From  the  Devout  Inquirer's  Guide, 
For  the  wise  spirits  to  decide  — 

As,  for  example,  is  it 
True  that  the  damned  are  fried  or  boiled  ? 
Was  the  Earth's  axis  greased  or  oiled  ? 
Wlio  cleaned  the  moon  when  it  was  soiled? 

How  heal  diseased  potatoes  ? 
Did  spirits  have  the  sense  of  smell  ? 
Where  would  departed  spinsters  dwell  ? 
If  the  late  Zenas  Smith  were  well  ? 
If  Earth  were  solid  or  a  shell  ? 


THE    UiYHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      79 

Were  spirits  fond  of  Doctor  Fell  ? 
Did  the  bull  toll  Cock-Robin's  knell  ? 
What  remedy  would  bugs  expel  ? 
If  Paine's  invention  were  a  sell  ? 
Did  spirits  by  Webster's  system  spell  ? 
Was  it  a  sin  to  be  a  belle  ? 
Did  dancing  sentence  folks  to  hell  ? 
If  so,  then  where  most  torture  fell  — 

On  little  toes  or  great  toes  ? 
If  life's  true  seat  were  in  the  brain  ? 
Did  Ensign  mean  to  marry  Jane  ? 
By  whom,  in  fact,  was  Morgan  slain  ? 
Could  matter  ever  suffer  pain  ? 
What  would  take  out  a  cherry-stain  ? 
Who  picked  the  pocket  of  Seth  Crane, 
Of  Waldo  precinct,  State  of  Maine  ? 
Was  Sir  John  Franklin  sought  in  vain  ? 
Did  primitive  Christians  ever  train  ? 
What  was  the  family-name  of  Cain  ? 
Them  spoons,  were  they  by  Betty  ta'en  ? 
Would  earth-worm  poultice  cure  a  sprain  ? 
Was  Socrates  so  dreadful  plain  ? 
What  teamster  guided  Charles's  wain  ? 
Was  Uncle  Ethan  mad  or  sane  ? 
And  could  his  will  in  force  remain  ? 
If  not,  what  counsel  to  retain  ? 
Did  Le  Sage  steal  Gil  Bias  from  Spain  ? 
Was  Junius  writ  by  Thomas  Paine  ? 


8o  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Were  ducks  discomforted  by  rain  ? 

How  did  Britannia  rule  the  main  ? 

Was  Jonas  coming  back  again  ? 

Was  vital  truth  upon  the  wane  ? 

Did  ghosts,  to  scare  folks,  drag  a  chain  ? 

Who  was  our  Huldah's  chosen  swain  ? 

Did  none  have  teeth  pulled  without  payin', 

Ere  ether  was  invented  ? 
Whether  mankind  would  not  agree, 
If  the  universe  were  tuned  in  C  ? 
What  was  it  ailed  Lucindy's  knee  ? 
Whether  folks  eat  folks  in  Feejee? 
Whether  his  name  would  end  with  T  ? 
If  Saturn's  rings  were  two  or  three  ? 
And  what  bump  in  Phrenology 

They  truly  represented  ? 
These  problems  dark,  wherein  they  groped, 
Wherewith  man's  reason  vainly  coped, 
Now  that  the  spirit-world  was  oped, 
In  all  humility  they  hoped 

Would  be  resolved  instanter  ; 
Each  of  the  miscellaneous  rout 
Brought  his,  or  her,  own  little  doubt, 
And  wished  to  pump  the  spirits  out, 
Through  his,  or  her,  own  private  spout. 

Into  his,  or  her,  decanter. 


THE   UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT.      8r 


Wherein  it  is  shown  that  the  most  ardent  Spirits  are  more 
ornamental  than  useful. 

Many  a  speculating  wight 
Came  by  express-trains,  day  and  night, 
To  see  if  Knott  would  "  sell  his  right," 
Meaning  to  make  the  ghosts  a  sight  — 

What  they  called  a  "  meenaygerie  ;  " 
One  threatened,  if  he  would  not  "trade," 
His  run  of  custom  to  invade, 
(He  could  not  these  sharp  folks  persuade 
That  he  was  not,  in  some  way,  paid,) 

And  stamp  him  as  a  plagiary. 
By  coming  down,  at  one  fell  swoop. 
With  THE  ORIGINAL  knocking  troupe, 

Come  recently  from  Hades, 
Who  (for  a  quarter-dollar  heard) 
Would  ne'er  rap  out  a  hasty  word 
Whence  any  blame  might  be  incurred 
From  the  most  fastidious  ladies  ; 
The  late  lamented  Jesse  Soule 
To  stir  the  ghosts  up  with  a  pole 
And  be  director  of  the  whole. 

Who  was  engaged  the  rather 
For  the  rare  merits  he  'd  combine, 
Having  been  in  the  spirit  line, 
Which  trade  he  only  did  resign 


LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

With  general  applause,  to  shine, 
Awful  in  mail  of  cotton  fine. 

As  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father ! 
Another  a  fair  plan  reveals 
Never  yet  hit  on,  which,  he  feels, 
To  Knott's  religious  sense  appeals  — 
"  We  '11  have  your  house  set  up  on  wheels, 

A  speculation  pious  ; 
For  music  we  can  shortly  find 
A  barrel-organ  that  will  grind 
Psalm-tunes  (an  instrument  designed 
For  the  New  England  tour)  refined 
From  secular  drosses,  and  inclined 
To  an  unworldly  turn  (combined 

With  no  sectarian  bias  ; ) 
Then,  travelling  by  stages  slow, 
Under  the  style  of  Knott  &  Co., 
I  would  accompany  the  show 
As  moral  lecturer,  the  foe 
Of  Rationalism  ;  you  could  throw 
The  rappings  in,  and  make  them  go 
Strict  Puritan  principles,  you  know, 
(How  do  you  make  'em  ?  with  your  toe  ?) 
And  the  receipts  which  thence  might  flow, 

We  could  divide  between  us ; 
Still  more  attractions  to  combine, 
Beside  these  services  of  mine, 
I  will  throw  in  a  very  fine 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.   KNOTT.      83 

(It  would  do  nicely  for  a  sign) 

Original  Titian's  Venus." 
Another  offered  handsome  fees 
If  Knott  would  get  Demosthenes. 
(Nay,  his  mere  knuckles,  for  more  ease,) 
To  rap  a  few  short  sentences  ; 
Or  if,  for  want  of  proper  keys. 

His  Greek  might  make  confusion, 
Then,  just  to  get  a  rap  from  Burke, 
To  recommend  a  little  work 

On  Public  Elocution. 
{Nonmilla  hie  destint 
Meliora  quae  sunt.) 

Meanwhile  the  spirits  made  replies 
To  all  the  reverent  wJiats  and  zvhys, 
Resolving  doubts  of  every  size, 
And  giving  seekers  grave  and  wise, 
Who  came  to  know  their  destinies, 

A  rap-turous  reception  ; 
When  unbelievers  void  of  grace 
Came  to  investigate  the  place, 
(Creatures  of  Sadducistic  race. 
With  grovelling  intellects  and  base) 
They  could  not  find  the  slightest  trace 

To  indicate  deception ; 
Indeed,  it  is  declared  by  some 
That  spirits  (of  this  sort)  are  glum. 


84  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Almost,  or  wholly,  deaf  and  dumb, 
And  (out  of  self-respect)  quite  mum 
To  sceptic  natures  cold  and  numb, 
Who  of  this  kind  of  Kingdom  Come, 

Have  not  a  just  conception  ; 
True,  there  were  people  who  demurred 
That,  though  the  raps  no  doubt  were  heard 

Both  under  them  and  o'er  them, 
Yet,  somehow,  when  a  search  they  made, 
They  found  Miss  Jenny  sore  afraid. 
Or  Jenny's  lover.  Doctor  Slade, 
Equally  awe-struck  and  dismayed, 
Or  Deborah,  the  chamber-maid, 
Whose  terrors,  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
In  laughs  hysteric  were  displayed, 

Was  always  there  before  them  ; 
This  had  its  due  effect  with  some 
Who  straight  departed,  muttering,  Hum  ! 

Transparent  hoax  !  and  Gammon  ! 
But  these  were  few  ;  believing  souls 
Came,  day  by  day,  in  larger  shoals. 
As  the  ancients  to  the  windy  holes 
'Neath  Delphi's  tripod  brought  their  doles, 

Or  to  the  shrine  of  Ammon. 
The  spirits  seemed  exceeding  tame, 
Call  whom  you  fancied  and  he  came  ; 
The  shades  august  of  eldest  fame 

You  summoned  with  an  awful  ease ; 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.  KNOTT.      85 

As  grosser  spirits  gurgled  out 
From  chair  and  table  with  a  spout, 
In  Auerbach's  cellar  once,  to  flout 
The  senses  of  the  rabble  rout, 
Where'er  the  gimlet  twirled  about 

Of  cunning  Mephistophiles  — 
So  did  these  spirits  seem  in  store, 
Behind  the  wainscot  or  the  door. 
Ready  to  thrill  the  being's  core 
Of  every  enterprising  bore 

With  their  astounding  glamour  ; 
Whatever  ghost  one  wished  to  hear. 
By  strange  coincidence,  was  near 
To  make  the  past  or  future  clear, 

(Sometimes  in  shocking  grammar,) 
By  raps  and  taps,  now  there,  now  here  — 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spirit  queer 
Of  some  departed  auctioneer 
Were  doomed  to  practise  by  the  year 

With  the  spirit  of  his  hammer; 
Whate'er  you  asked  was  answered,  yet 
One  could  not  very  deeply  get 
Into  the  obliging  spirits'  debt, 
Because  they  used  the  alphabet 

In  all  communications. 
And  new  revealings  (though  sublime) 
Rapped  out,  one  letter  at  a  time, 

With  boggles,  hesitations, 


86  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Stoppings,  beginnings  o'er  again, 
And  getting  matters  into  train, 
Could  hardly  overload  the  brain 

With  too  excessive  rations, 
Since  just  to  ask  if  tivo  a?id  tzvo 
Really  viake  four  ?  or,  Hoiv  d'  ye  do  ? 
And  get  the  fit  replies  thereto 
In  the  tramundane  rat-tat-too, 

Might  ask  a  whole  day's  patience. 

'T  was  strange  ('mongst  other  things)  to  find 
In  what  odd  sets  the  ghosts  combined, 

Happy  forthwith  to  thump  any 
Piece  of  intelligence  inspired. 
The  truth  whereof  had  been  inquired 

By  some  one  of  the  company ; 
For  instance,  Fielding,  Mirabeau, 
Orator  Henley,  Cicero, 
Paley,  John  Zisca,  Marivaux, 
Melanchthon,  Robertson,  Junot, 
Scaliger,  Chesterfield,  Rousseau, 
Hakluyt,  Boccaccio,  South,  De  Foe, 
Diaz,  Josephus,  Richard  Roe, 
Odin,  Arminius,  Charles  le  gros, 
Tiresias,  the  late  James  Crow, 
Casablanca,  Grose,  Prideaux, 
Old  Grimes,  young  Xorval,  Swift,  Brissot, 
Maimonides,  the  Chevalier  D  'O, 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      '^.'J 

Socrates,  Fenelon,  Job,  Stow, 
The  inventor  of  Elixir  pro, 
Euripides,  Spinoza,  Poe, 
Confucius,  Hiram  Smith,  and  Fo, 
Came  (as  it  seemed,  somewhat  de  trop) 
With  a  disembodied  Esquimaux, 
To  say  that  it  was  so  and  so. 

With  Franklin's  Expedition  ; 
One  testified  to  ice  and  snow, 
One  that  the  mercury  was  low. 
One  that  his  progress  was  quite  slow. 
One  that  he  much  desired  to  go. 
One  that  the  cook  had  frozen  his  toe, 
(Dissented  from  by  Dandolo, 
Wordsworth,  Cynaegirus,  Boileau, 
La  Hontan  and  Sir  Thomas  Roe,) 
One  saw  twelve  white  bears  in  a  row. 
One  saw  eleven  and  a  crow, 
With  other  things  we  could  not  know 
(Of  great  statistic  value,  though) 

By  our  mere  mortal  vision, 
Sometimes  the  spirits  made  mistakes. 
And  seemed  to  play  at  ducks  and  drakes. 
With  bold  inquiry's  heaviest  stakes 

In  science  or  in  mystery ; 
They  knew  so  little  (and  that  wrong) 
Yet  rapped  it  out  so  bold  and  strong. 
One  would  have  said  the  entire  throng 


88  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Had  been  Professors  of  History; 
What  made  it  odder  was,  that  those 
Who,  you  would  naturally  suppose, 
Could  solve  a  question,  if  they  chose, 
As  easily  as  count  their  toes 

Were  just  the  ones  that  blundered; 
One  day,  Ulysses  happening  down, 
A  reader  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne 

And  who  (with  him)  had  wondered 
What  song  it  was  the  Sirens  sang, 
Asked  the  shrewd  Ithacan  —  bang!  bang  ! 
With  this  response  the  chamber  rang, 

"I  guess  it  was  Old  Hundred." 
And  Franklin,  being  asked  to  name 
The  reason  why  the  lightning  came, 

Replied,  "Because  it  thundered," 

On  one  sole  point  the  ghosts  agreed. 
One  fearful  point,  than  which,  indeed. 

Nothing  could  seem  absurder  ; 
Poor  Colonel  Jones  they  all  abused, 
And  finally  downright  accused 

The  poor  old  man  of  murder ; 
'T  was  thus ;  by  dreadful  raps  was  shown 
Some  spirit's  longing  to  make  known 
A  bloody  fact,  which  he  alone 
Was  privy  to,  (such  ghosts  more  prone 

In  Earth's  affairs  to  meddle  are ; ) 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      89 

Who  are  you?  with  awe-stricken  looks, 
All  ask  :  his  airy  knuckles  he  crooks, 
And  raps,  "  I  ivas  Eliab  Snooks, 

That  used  to  be  a  pedler ; 
Some  on  ye  still  are  on  my  books! " 
Whereat,  to  inconspicuous  nooks, 
(More  fearing  this  than  common  spooks,) 

Shrank  each  indebted  meddler; 
Further  the  vengeful  ghost  declared 
That  while  his  earthly  life  was  spared, 
About  the  country  he  had  fared, 

A  duly  licensed  follower 
Of  that  much-wandering  trade  that  wins 
Slow  profit  from  the  sale  of  tins. 

And  various  kinds  of  hollow-ware  ; 
That  Colonel  Jones  enticed  him  in 
Pretending  that  he  wanted  tin, 
There  slew  him  with  a  rolling-pin, 
Hid  him  in  a  potato-bin, 

And  (the  same  night)  him  ferried 
Across  Great  Pond  to  t'  other  shore. 
And  there  on  land  of  Widow  Moore, 
Just  where  you  turn  to  Larkin's  store, 

Under  a  rock  him  buried ; 
Some  friends  (who  happened  to  be  by) 
He  called  upon  to  testify 
That  what  he  said  was  not  a  lie. 

And  that  he  did  not  stir  this 


90  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Foul  matter  out  of  any  spite 

But  from  a  simple  love  of  right;  — 

Which  statement  the  Nine  Worthies, 
Rabbi  Akiba,  Charlemagne, 
Seth,  Colley  Gibber,  General  Wayne, 
Cambyses,  Tasso,  Tubal-Gain, 
The  owner  of  a  castle  in  Spain, 
Jehangire  and  the  Widow  of  Nain, 
(The  friends  aforesaid)  made  more  plain 

And  by  loud  raps  attested  ; 
To  the  same  purport  testified 
Plato,  John  Wilkes,  and  Golonel  Pride 
Who  knew  said  Snooks  before  he  died, 

Had  in  his  wares  invested. 
Thought  him  entitled  to  belief 
And  freely  could  concur,  in  brief 

In  everything  the  rest  did. 

Eliab  this  occasion  seized, 
(Distinctly  here  the  Spirit  sneezed) 
To  say  that  he  should  ne'er  be  eased 
Till  Jenny  married  whom  she  pleased, 

Free  from  all  checks  and  urgin's 
(This  spirit  dropped  his  final  g's) 
And  that,  unless  Knott  quickly  sees 
This  done,  the  spirits  to  appease. 
They  would  come  back  his  life  to  tease 
As  thick  as  mites  in  ancient  cheese. 


THE    UAHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.    KNOTT.      9 1 

And  let  his  house  on  an  endless  lease 
To  the  ghosts  (terrific  rappers  these 
And  veritable  Eumenides,) 

Of  the  Eleven  Thousand  Virg-ins  ! 


Knott  was  perplexed  and  shook  his  head, 
He  did  not  wish  his  child  to  wed 

With  a  suspected  murderer, 
(For,  true  or  false,  the  rumor  spread,) 
But  as  for  this  riled  life  he  led, 
"It  would  not  answer,"  so  he  said, 

"  To  have  it  go  no  furderer." 

At  last,  scarce  knowing  what  it  meant. 
Reluctantly  he  gave  consent 
That  Jenny,  since  't  was  evident 
That  she  zvoiild  follow  her  own  bent, 

Should  make  her  own  election ; 
For  that  appeared  the  only  way 
These  frightful  noises  to  allay 
Which  had  already  turned  him  gray 

And  plunged  him  in  dejection. 

Accordingly,  this  artless  maid 
Her  father's  ordinance  obeyed, 
And,  all  in  whitest  crape  arrayed, 
(Miss  Pulsifer  the  dresses  made 


92  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  wishes  here  the  fact  displayed 

That  she  still  carries  on  the  trade, 

The  third  door  south  from  Bagg's  Arcade,) 

A  very  faint  "  I  do  "  essayed 

And  gave  her  hand  to  Hiram  Slade, 

From  which  time  forth,  the  ghosts  were  laid  ; 

And  ne'er  gave  trouble  after ; 
But  the  Selectmen,  be  it  known, 
Dug  underneath  the  aforesaid  stone. 
Where  the  poor  pedler's  corpse  was  thrown, 
And  found  there-under  a  jaw-bone, 
Though,  when  the  crowner  sat  thereon. 
He  nothing  hatched,  except  alone 

Successive  broods  of  laughter  ; 
It  was  a  frail  and  dingy  thing, 
In  which  a  grinder  or  two  did  cling, 

In  color  like  molasses, 
Which  surgeons,  called  from  far  and  wide, 
Upon  the  horror  to  decide, 

Having  put  on  their  glasses. 
Reported  thus  —  "To  judge  by  looks. 
These  bones,  by  some  queer  hooks  or  crooks, 
May  have  belonged  to  Mr.  Snooks, 
But,  as  men  deepest  read  in  books 

Are  perfectly  aware,  bones, 
If  buried,  fifty  years  or  so, 
Lose  their  identity  and  grow 

From  human  bones  to  bare  bones." 


THE    UNHAPPY  LOT  OF  MR.  KNOTT.      93 

Still,  if  to  Jaalam  you  go  down, 
You  '11  find  two  parties  in  the  town, 
One  headed  by  Benaiah  Brown, 

And  one  by  Perez  Tinkham  ; 
The  first  believe  the  ghosts  all  through, 
And  vow  that  they  shall  never  rue 
The  happy  chance  by  which  they  knew 
That  people  in  Jupiter  are  blue, 
And  very  fond  of  Irish  stew, 
Two  curious  facts  which  Prince  Lee  Boo 
Rapped  clearly  to  a  chosen  few  — 

Whereas  the  others  think  'em 
A  trick  got  up  by  Doctor  Slade 
With  Deborah  the  chamber-maid 

And  that  sly  cretur  Jenny, 
That  all  the  revelations  wise, 
At  which  the  Brownites  made  big  eyes, 
Might  have  been  given  by  Jared  Keyes, 

A  natural  fool  and  ninny. 
And,  last  week,  did  n't  Eliab  Snooks, 
Come  back  with  never  better  looks, 
As  sharp  as  new  bought  mackerel  hooks, 

And  bright  as  a  new  pin,  eh  ? 
Good  Parson  Wilbur,  too,  avers 
(Though  to  be  mixed  in  parish  stirs 
Is  worse  than  handling  chestnut-burs) 
That  no  case  to  his  mind  occurs 
Where  spirits  ever  did  converse 


94  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Save  in  a  kind  of  guttural  Erse, 

(So  say  the  best  authorities;) 
And  that  a  charge  by  raps  conveyed, 
Should  be  most  scrupulously  weighed 

And  searched  into  before  it  is 
Wade  public,  since  it  may  give  pain 
That  cannot  soon  be  cured  again, 
And  one  word  may  infix  a  stain 

Which  ten  cannot  gloss  over. 
Though  speaking  for  his  private  part, 
He  is  rejoiced  with  all  his  heart 

Miss  Knott  missed  not  her  lover. 
December,  1850. 


HAKON'S   LAY. 

Then  Thorstein  looked  at  Hakon,  where  he  sate, 
Mute  as  a  cloud  amid  the  stormy  hall, 
And  said  :  "  O,  Skald,  sing  now  an  olden  song, 
Such  as  our  fathers  heard  who  led  great  lives ; 
And,  as  the  bravest  on  a  shield  is  borne 
Along  the  waving  host  that  shouts  him  king, 
So  rode  their  thrones  upon  the  thronging  seas  ! " 

Then  the  old  man  arose,  white-haired  he  stood. 
White-bearded,  and  with  eyes  that  looked  afar 
From  their  still  region  of  perpetual  snow. 
Over  the  little  smokes  and  stirs  of  men : 


HAKON'S  LAY.  95 

His  head  was  bowed  with  gathered  flakes  of  years, 
As  winter  bends  the  sea-foreboding  pine, 
But  something  triumphed  in  his  brow  and  eye, 
Which  whoso  saw  it,  could  not  see  and  crouch  : 
Loud  rang  the  emptied  beakers  as  he  mused, 
Brooding  his  eyried  thoughts  ;  then,  as  an  eagle 
Circles     smooth-winged     above     the    wind-vexed 

woods. 
So  wheeled  his  soul  into  the  air  of  song 
High  o'er  the  stormy  hall ;  and  thus  he  sang  : 

"  The  fletcher  for  his  arrow-shaft  picks  out 
Wood    closest-grained,   long-seasoned,  straight  as 

light ; 
And,  from  a  quiver  full  of  such  as  these. 
The  wary  bow-man,  matched  against  his  peers. 
Long  doubting,  singles  yet  once  more  the  best. 
Who  is  it  that  can  make  such  shafts  as  Fate  ? 
What  archer  of  his  arrows  is  so  choice. 
Or  hits  the  white  so  surely  ?     They  are  men, 
The  chosen  of  her  quiver  ;  nor  for  her 
Will  every  reed  suffice,  or  cross-grained  stick 
At  random  from  life's  vulgar  fagot  plucked  : 
Such  answer  household  ends  ;  but  she  will  have 
Souls  straight  and  clear,  of  toughest  fibre,  sound 
Down  to  the  heart  of  heart  ;  from  these  she  strips 
All  needless  stuff,  all  sapwood,  hardens  them,  • 

From  circumstance  untoward  feathers  pluckg 


96  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Crumpled  and  cheap,  and  barbs  with  iron  will : 
The  hour  that  passes  is  her  quiver-boy  ; 
When  she  draws  bow,  't  is  not  across  the  wind, 
Nor   'gainst    the    sun,    her   haste-snatched   arrow 

sings, 
For  sun  and  wind  have  plighted  faith  to  her  : 
Ere  men  have  heard  the  sinew  twang,  behold, 
In  the  butt's  heart  her  trembling  messenger! 

"  The  song  is  old  and  simple  that  I  sing  : 
Good  were  the  days  of  yore,  when  men  Avere  tried 
By  ring  of  shields,  as  now  by  ring  of  gold ; 
But,  while  the  gods  are  left,  and  hearts  of  men, 
And  the  free  ocean,  still  the  days  are  good ; 
Through  the  broad  Earth  roams  Opportunity 
And  knocks  at  every  door  of  hut  or  hall, 
Until  she  finds  the  brave  soul  that  she  wants." 

He  ceased,  and  instantly  the  frothy  tide 

Of  interrupted  wassail  roared  along ; 

But  Leif,  the  son  of  Eric,  sate  apart 

Musing,  and,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  fire. 

Saw  shapes  of  arrows,  lost  as  soon  as  seen ; 

But  then  with  that  resolve  his  heart  was  bent. 

Which,   like  a  humming    shaft,   through  many  a 

strife 
Of  day  and  night  across  the  unventured  seas. 
Shot  the  brave  prow  to  cut  on  Vinland  sands 
The  first  rune  in  the  Saga  of  the  West. 


TO    THE  FUTURE.  97 

TO  THE   FUTURE. 

O,  Land  of  Promise  !  from  what  Pisgah's  height 
Can  I  behold  thy  stretch  of  peaceful  bowers  ? 
Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight, 

Thy  nestled  homes  and  sun-illumined  towers  ? 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heaped  gold, 

Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  chrysolite, 
Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory  that  unfold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices, 
Whence  but  a  scanty  leap  it  seems  to  heaven. 

Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given, 
Of  thy  more  gorgeous  realm,  thy  more  unstinted 
blisses. 

O,  Land  of  Quiet !  to  thy  shore  the  surf 

Of  the  perturbed  Present  rolls  and  sleeps  ; 
Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  June  upon  thy  turf 
And  lure  out  blossoms  ;  to  thy  bosom  leaps. 
As  to  a  mother's,  the  o'er  wearied  heart, 
Hearing  far  off  and  dim  the  toiling  mart. 

The    hurrying    feet,    the    curses    without 

number. 
And,  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian, 
Of  thine  exulting  vision. 
Out  of  its  very  cares  wooes  charms  for  peace  and 
slumber. 


98  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  thee  the  Earth  lifts  up  her  fettered  hands 

And  cries  for  vengeance  ;  with  a  pitying  smile 
Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her  bands, 

And  her  old  woe-worn  face  a  little  while 
Grows  young  and  noble  ;  unto  thee  the  Oppressor 
Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe  ; 
The  eternal  law 
Which   makes  the    crime    its    own    blindfold    re- 
dresser, 
Shadows  his  heart  with  perilous  foreboding, 
And  he  can  see  the  grim-eyed  Doom 
From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its  silent-footed  steeds  toward  his  palace  goading. 

What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poet's  eyes, 
Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong  ! 
To  all  their  hopes  what  over-joyed  replies! 

What  undreamed  ecstasies  for  blissful  song ! 
Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trump's  brawling  clangor 

Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate  the  poor ; 
The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with  anger ; 
Love   leaves   no    grudge  at   less,   no  greed  for 
more  ; 
In  vain  strives  Self  the  godlike  sense  to  smother ; 
From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps  ; 
The  noble  'neath  foul   rags  beholds  his  long-lost 
brother. 


TO   THE  FUTURE.  99 

To  thee  the  Martyr  lookcth,  and  his  fires 

Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit  free ; 
To  thee  the  Poet  'mid  his  toil  aspires, 

And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his  knee 
Welcome  as  children  ;  thou  upholdest 

The  lone  Inventor  by  his  demon  haunted  ; 
The  Prophet  cries  to  thee  when  hearts  are  coldest, 
And,    gazing    o'er    the    midnight's    bleak 

abyss, 
Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at  thy  kiss, 
And  stretch  its  happy  arms   and   leap  up  disen- 
chanted. 

Thou  bringest  vengeance,  but  so  loving  kindly 

The  guilty  thinks  it  pity ;  taught  by  thee 
Fierce     tyrants    drop     the    scourges    wherewith 
blindly 
Their  own  souls  they  were  scarring  ;  conquerors 
see 
With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed  spear 

That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  on  Calvary, 
And   from    their    trophies    shrink   with   ghastly 
fear  ; 
Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 
The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  revealing  ; 

The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 
Pierce  error's  guilty   heart,  but   only   pierce   for 
healing". 


lOO  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

O,  whither,  whither,  glory-winged  dreams, 

From   out   Life's   sweat  and  turmoil  would  ye 
bear  me  ? 
Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden  gleams, 
This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare  me  ! 
Fade,  cheating  glow,  and  leave  me  to  my  night ! 
He  is  a  coward  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of  delight  : 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll, 

The  ancestral  buckler  calls. 
Self-clanging,  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul ; 
Where  are  most  sorrows,  there  the  poet's  sphere 
is, 
To  feed  the  soul  with  patience. 
To  heal  its  desolations 
With   words    of    unshorn    truth,    with    love    that 
never  wearies. 


OUT   OF   DOORS. 

'T  IS  good  to  be  abroad  in  the  sun. 
His  gifts  abide  when  day  is  done  ; 
Each  thing  in  nature  from  his  cup 
Gathers  a  several  virtue  up  ; 
The  grace  within  its  being's  reach 
Becomes  the  nutriment  of  each, 


OUT  OF  DOORS.  lOl 

And  the  same  life  imbibed  by  all 
Makes  each  most  individual  : 
Here  the  twig-bending  peaches  seek 
The  glow  that  mantles  in  their  cheek  — 
Hence  comes  the  Indian-summer  bloom 
That  hazes  round  the  basking  plum, 
And,  from  the  same  impartial  light. 
The  grass  sucks  green,  the  lily  white. 

Like  these  the  soul,  for  sunshine  made. 
Grows  wan  and  gracile  in  the  shade, 
Her  faculties,  which  God  decreed 
Various  as  Summer's  daedal  breed, 
With  one  sad  color  are  imbued. 
Shut  from  the  sun  that  tints  their  blood  ; 
The  shadow  of  the  poet's  roof 
Deadens  the  dyes  of  warp  and  woof ; 
Whate'er  of  ancient  song  remains 
Has  fresh  air  flowing  in  its  veins, 
For  Greece  and  eldest  Ind  knew  well 
That  out  of  doors,  with  world-wide  swell 
Arches  the  student's  lawful  cell. 

Away,  unfruitful  lore  of  books, 
For  whose  vain  idiom  we  reject 
The  spirit's  mother-dialect, 
Aliens  amons:  the  birds  and  brooks, 


I02  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Dull  to  interpret  or  believe 

What  gospels  lost  the  woods  retrieve, 

Or  what  the  eaves-dropping  violet 

Reports  from  God,  who  walketh  yet 

His  garden  in  the  hush  of  eve  ! 

Away,  ye  pedants  city-bred, 

Unwise  of  heart,  too  wise  of  head, 

Who  handcuff  Art  with  t/uis  and  so, 

And  in  each  other's  footprints  tread. 

Like  those  who  walk  through  drifted  snow  ; 

Who,  from  deep  study  of  brick  walls 
Conjecture  of  the  water-falls. 
By  six  square  feet  of  smoke-stained  sky 
Compute  those  deeps  that  overlie 
The  still  tarn's  heaven-anointed  eye, 
And,  in  your  earthen  crucible, 
With  chemic  tests  essay  to  spell 
How  nature  works  in  field  and  dell! 
Seek  we  where  Shakspeare  buried  gold  ? 
Such  hands  no  charmed  w-itch-hazel  hold ; 
To  beach  and  rock  repeats  the  sea 
The  mystic  Open  Sesame  ; 
Old  Greylock's  voices  not  in  vain 
Comment  on  Milton's  mountain  strain, 
And  cunningly  the  various  wind 
Spenser's  locked  music  can  unbind. 


A    REVERIE.  103 

A    REVERIE. 

In  the  twilight  deep  and  silent 
Comes  tliy  spirit  unto  mine, 
When  the  moonlight  and  the  starlight 
Over  cliff  and  woodland  shine, 
And  the  quiver  of  the  river 
Seems  a  thrill  of  joy  benign. 

Then  I  rise  and  wander  slowly 
To  the  headland  by  the  sea, 
When  the  evening  star  throbs  setting 
Through  the  cloudy  cedar  tree. 
And  from  under,  mellow  thunder 
Of  the^urf  comes  fitfully. 

Then  within  my  soul  I  feel  thee 
Like  a  gleam  of  other  years. 
Visions  of  my  childhood  murmur 
Their  old  madness  in  my  ears, 
Till  the  pleasance  of  thy  presence 
Cools  my  heart  with  blissful  tears. 

All  the  wondrous  dreams  of  boyhood  — 

All  youth's  fiery  thirst  of  praise  — 

All  the  surer  hopes  of  manhood 

Blossoming  in  sadder  days  — 

Joys  that  bound  me,  griefs  that  crowned  me 

With  a  better  wreath  than  bays  — 


I04  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

All  the  longings  after  freedom  — 
The  vague  love  of  human  kind, 
Wandering  far  and  near  at  random 
Like  a  winged  seed  in  the  wind  — 
The  dim  yearnings  and  fierce  burnings 
Of  an  undirected  mind  — 

All  of  these,  oh  best  beloved. 
Happiest  present  dreams  and  past. 
In  thy  love  find  safe  fulfilment. 
Ripened  into  truths  at  last ; 
Faith  and  beauty,  hope  and  duty 
To  one  centre  gather  fast. 

• 
How  my  nature,  like  an  oceaa, 
At  the  breath  of  thine  awakes. 
Leaps  its  shores  in  mad  exulting 
And  in  foamy  thunder  breaks, 
Then  downsinking,  lieth  shrinking 
At  the  tumult  that  it  makes  ! 

Blazing  Hesperus  hath  sunken 
Low  within  the  pale-blue  west. 
And  with  golden  splendor  crowneth 
The  horizon's  piny  crest ; 
Thoughtful  quiet  stills  the  riot 
Of  wild  longing  in  my  breast. 


IX  SADXESS.  105 

Home  I  loiter  through  the  moonlight, 
Underneath  the  quivering  trees, 
Which,  as  if  a  spirit  stirred  them, 
Sway  and  bend,  till  by  degrees 
The  far  surge's  murmur  merges 
In  the  rustle  of  the  breeze. 


IN   SADNESS. 

There  is  not  in  this  life  of  ours 

One  bliss  unmixed  with  fears. 
The  hope  that  wakes  our  deepest  powers 

A  face  of  sadness  wears. 
And  the  dew  that  showers  our  dearest  flowers 

Is  the  bitter  dew  of  tears. 

Fame  waiteth  long,  and  lingereth 
Through  weary  nights  and  morns  — 

And  evermore  the  shadow  Death 
With  mocking  finger  scorns 

That  underneath  the  laurel  wreath 
Should  be  a  wreath  of  thorns. 

The  laurel  leaves  are  cool  and  green. 

But  the  thorns  are  hot  and  sharp, 
Lean  Hunger  grins  and  stares  between 

The  poet  and  his  harp  ; 
Though  of  Love's  sunny  sheen  his  woof  have  been, 

Grim  want  thrusts  in  the  warp. 


I06  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  if  beyond  this  darksome  clime 
Some  fair  star  Hope  may  see, 

That  keeps  unjarred  the  blissful  chime 
Of  its  golden  infancy  — 

Where  the  harvest-time  of  faith  sublime 
Not  always  is  to  be  — 

Yet  would  the  true  soul  rather  choose 

Its  home  where  sorrow  is, 
Than  in  a  sated  peace  to  lose 

Its  life's  supremest  bliss  — 
The  rainbow  hues  that  bend  profuse 

O'er  cloudy  spheres  like  this  — 

The  want,  the  sorrow  and  the  pain, 
That  are  Love's  right  to  cure  — 

The  sunshine  bursting  after  rain  — 
The  gladness  insecure 

That  makes  us  fain  strong  hearts  to  gain, 
To  do  and  to  endure. 

High  natures  must  be  thunder-scarred 
With  many  a  searing  wrong  ; 

From  mother  Sorrow's  breasts  the  bard 
Sucks  gifts  of  deepest  song. 

Nor  all  unmarred  with  struggles  hard 
Wax  the  Soul's  sinews  strong. 


FAREWELL.  107 

Dear  Patience,  too,  is  born  of  woe, 

Patience  that  opes  the  gate 
Wherethrough  the  soul  of  man  must  go 

Up  to  each  nobler  state, 
Whose  voice's  flow  so  meek  and  low 

Smooths  the  bent  brows  of  Fate. 

Though  Fame  be  slow,  yet  Death  is  swift, 

And,  o'er  the  spirit's  eyes. 
Life  after  life  doth  change  and  shift 

With  larger  destinies  : 
As  on  we  drift,  some  wider  rift 

Shows  us  serener  skies. 

And  though  naught  falleth  to  us  here 

But  gains  the  world  counts  loss. 
Though  all  we  hope  of  wisdom  clear 

When  climbed  to  seems  but  dross. 
Yet  all,  though  ne'er  Christ's  faith  they  wear, 

At  least  may  share  his  cross. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell  !  as  the  bee  round  the  blossom 

Doth  murmur  drowsily. 

So  murmureth  round  my  bosom 

The  memory  of  thee  ; 

Lingering,  it  seems  to  go. 

When  the  wind  more  full  doth  flow. 

Waving  the  flower  to  and  fro. 


I08  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  still  returneth,  Marian  ! 

My  hope  no  longer  burneth, 

Which  did  so  fiercely  burn, 

My  joy  to  sorrow  turneth, 

Although  loath,  loath  to  turn  — 

I  \Yould  forget  — 

And  yet  —  and  yet 

My  heart  to  thee  still  yearneth,  Marian  ! 

Fair  as  a  single  star  thou  shinest, 

And  white  as  lilies  are 

The  slender  hands  wherewith  thou  twinest 

Thy  heavy  auburn  hair  ; 

Thou  art  to  me 

A  memory 

Of  all  that  is  divinest : 

Thou  art  so  fair  and  tall, 

Thy  looks  so  queenly  are, 

Thy  very  shadow  on  the  wall, 

Thy  step  upon  the  stair. 

The  thought  that  thou  art  nigh, 

The  chance  look  of  thine  eye 

Are  more  to  me  than  all,  Marian, 

And  will  be  till  I  die  ! 

As  the  last  quiver  of  a  bell 
Doth  fade  into  the  air, 
With  a  subsiding  swell 
That  dies  we  know  not  where, 


FAREWELL.  1 09 

So  my  hope  melted  and  was  gone  : 

I  raised  mine  eyes  to  bless  the  star 

That  shared  its  light  with  me  so  far 

Below  its  silver  throne, 

And  gloom  and  chilling  vacancy 

Were  all  was  left  to  me, 

In  the  dark,  bleak  night  I  was  alone  ! 

Alone  in  the  blessed  Earth,  Marian, 

For  what  were  all  to  me  — 

Its  love,  and  light,  and  mirth,  Marian, 

If  I  were  not  with  thee  ? 

My  heart  will  not  forget  thee 
More  than  the  moaning  brine 
Forgets  the  moon  when  she  is  set; 
The  gush  when  first  I  met  thee 
That  thrilled  my  brain  like  wine, 
Doth  thrill  as  madly  yet ; 
My  heart  cannot  forget  thee, 
Though  it  may  droop  and  pine, 
Too  deeply  it  had  set  thee 
In  every  love  of  mine  ; 
No  new  moon  ever  cometh, 
No  flower  ever  bloometh, 
No  twilight  ever  gloometh 
But  I  'm  more  only  thine. 
Oh  look  not  on  me,  Marian, 
Thine  eyes  are  wild  and  deep. 


no  LOWELL'S  POEMS, 

And  they  have  won  me,  Marian, 
From  peacefulness  and  sleep  ; 
The  sunlight  doth  not  sun  me. 
The  meek  moonshine  doth  shun  me, 
All  sweetest  voices  stun  me  — 
There  is  no  rest 
Within  my  breast 
And  I  can  only  weep,  Marian  ! 

As  a  landbird  far  at  sea 

Doth  wander  through  the  sleet 

And  drooping  downward  wearily 

Finds  no  rest  for  her  feet, 

So  wandereth  my  memory 

O'er  the  years  when  we  did  meet : 

I  used  to  say  that  everything 

Partook  a  share  of  thee, 

That  not  a  little  bird  could  sing, 

Or  green  leaf  flutter  on  a  tree, 

That  nothing  could  be  beautiful 

Save  part  of  thee  were  there. 

That  from  thy  soul  so  clear  and  full 

All  bright  and  blessed  things  did  cull 

The  charm  to  make  them  fair ; 

And  now  I  know 

That  it  was  so. 

Thy  spirit  through  the  earth  doth  flow 

And  face  me  whereso'er  I  go  — 


FAREWELL.  II 

What  right  hath  perfectncss  to  give 
Such  weary  weight  of  woe 
Unto  the  soul  which  cannot  live 
On  anything  more  low  ? 
Oh  leave  me,  leave  me,  Marian, 
There  's  no  fair  thing  I  see 
But  doth  deceive  me,  Marian, 
Into  sad  dreams  of  thee ! 

A  cold  snake  gnaws  my  heart 

And  crushes  round  my  brain, 

And  I  should  glory  but  to  part 

So  bitterly  again, 

Feeling  the  slow  tears  start 

And  fall  in  fiery  rain  : 

There  's  a  wide  ring  round  the  moon, 

The  ghost-like  clouds  glide  by. 

And  I  hear  the  sad  winds  croon 

A  dirge  to  the  lowering  sky ; 

There  's  nothing  soft  or  mild 

In  the  pale  moon's  sickly  light. 

But  all  looks  strange  and  wild 

Through  the  dim,  foreboding  night : 

I  think  thou  must  be  dead 

In  some  dark  and  lonely  place, 

With  candles  at  thy  head. 

And  a  pall  above  thee  spread 

To  hide  thy  dead,  cold  face ; 


112  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  I  can  see  thee  underneath 

So  pale,  and  still,  and  fair. 

Thine  eyes  closed  smoothly  and  a  wreath 

Of  flowers  in  thy  hair ; 

I  never  saw  thy  face  so  clear 

When  thou  wast  with  the  living, 

As  now  beneath  the  pall,  so  drear, 

And  stiff,  and  unforgiving  ; 

I  cannot  flee  thee,  Marian, 

I  cannot  turn  away, 

Mine  eyes  must  see  thee,  Marian, 

Through  salt  tears  night  and  day. 


A   DIRGE. 


Poet  !  lonely  is  thy  bed. 
And  the  turf  is  overhead  — 

Cold  earth  is  thy  cover  ; 
But  thy  heart  hath  found  release, 
And  it  slumbers  full  of  peace 
'Neath  the^rustle  of  green  trees 
And  the  warm  hum  of  the  bees, 

'Mid  the  drowsy  clover  ; 
Through  thy  chamber,  still  as  death, 
A  smooth  gurgle  wandereth. 
As  the  blue  stream  murmureth 

To  the  blue  sky  over. 


A    DIRGE.  113 

Three  paces  from  the  silver  strand, 
Gently  in  the  fine,  white  sand. 
With  a  lily  in  thy  hand, 

Pale  as  snow,  they  laid  thee  ; 
In  no  coarse  earth  wast  thou  hid, 
And  no  gloomy  coffin-lid 

Darkly  overweighed  thee. 
Silently  as  snow-flakes  drift, 
The  smooth  sand  did  sift  and  sift 

O'er  the  bed  they  made  thee  ; 
All  sweet  birds  did  come  and  sing 
At  thy  sunny  burying  — 

Choristers  unbidden, 
And,  beloved  of  sun  and  dew, 
Meek  forget-me-nots  upgrew 
Where  thine  eyes  so  large  and  blue 

'Neath  the  turf  were  hidden. 

Where  thy  stainless  clay  doth  lie. 
Blue  and  open  is  the  sky. 
And  the  white  clouds  wander  by, 
Dreams  of  summer  silently 

Darkening  the  river ; 
Thou  hearest  the  clear  water  run  ; 
And  the  ripples  every  one, 
Scattering  the  golden  sun, 

Through  thy  silence  quiver; 
Vines  trail  down  upon  the  stream. 


114  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Into  its  smooth  and  glassy  dream 

A  green  stillness  spreading, 
And  the  shiner,  perch,  and  bream 
Through  the  shadowed  waters  gleam 
'Gainst  the  current  heading. 

White  as  snow,  thy  winding  sheet 
Shelters  thee  from  head  to  feet. 

Save  thy  pale  face  only  ; 
Thy  face  is  turned  toward  the  skies. 
The  lids  lie  meekly  o'er  thine  eyes. 
And  the  low-voiced  pine-tree  sighs 

O'er  thy  bed  so  lonely. 
All  thy  life  thou  lov'dst  its  shade : 
Underneath  it  thou  art  laid, 

In  an  endless  shelter  ; 
Thou  hearest  it  forever  sigh 
As  the  wind's  vague  longings  die 
In  its  branches  dim  and  high  — 
Thou  hear'st  the  waters  gliding  by 

Slumberously  welter. 

Thou  wast  full  of  love  and  truth, 

Of  forgiveness  and  ruth  — 

Thy  great  heart  with  hope  and  youth 

Tided  to  o'erflowing. 
Thou  didst  dwell  in  mysteries. 
And  there  lingered  on  thine  eyes 


A    DIRGE.  I  I  5 

Shadows  of  serener  skies, 
Awfully  wild  memories, 

That  were  like  foreknowing  ; 
Through  the  earth  thou  would'st  have  gone. 
Lighted  from  within  alone, 
Seeds  from  flowers  in  Heaven  grown 

With  a  free  hand  sowing. 

Thou  didst  remember  well  and  long 

Some  fragments  of  thine  angel-song, 

And  strive,  through  want  of  woe  and  wrong. 

To  win  the  world  unto  it ; 
Thy  sin  it  was  to  see  and  hear 
Beyond  To-day's  dim  hemisphere  — 
Beyond  all  mists  of  hope  and  fear, 
Into  a  life  more  true  and  clear, 

And  dearly  thou  didst  rue  it ; 
Light  of  the  new  world  thou  hadst  won, 
O  'erflooded  by  a  purer  sun  — 
Slowly  Fate's  ship  came  drifting  on, 
And  through  the  dark,  save  thou,  not  one 

Caught  of  the  land  a  token. 
Thou  stood'st  upon  the  farthest  prow, 
Something  within  thy  soul  said  "  Now  !" 
And  leaping  forth  with  eager  brow. 

Thou  fell'st  on  shore  heart-broken. 

Long  time  thy  brethren  stood  in  fear  ; 
Only  the  breakers  far  and  near, 


Il6  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

White  with  their  anger,  they  could  hear; 
The  sounds  of  land,  which  thy  quick  ear 

Caught  long  ago,  they  heard  not. 
And,  when  at  last  they  reached  the  strand, 
They  found  thee  lying  on  the  sand 
With  some  wild  flowers  in  thy  hand, 

But  thy  cold  bosom  stirred  not ; 
They  listened,  but  they  heard  no  sound 
Save  from  the  glad  life  all  around 

A  low,  contented  murmur. 
The  long  grass  flowed  adown  the  hill, 
A  hum  rose  from  a  hidden  rill, 
But  thy  glad  heart,  that  knew  no  ill 
But  too  much  love,  lay  dead  and  still  — 
The  only  thing  that  sent  a  chill 

Into  the  heart  of  summer. 

Thou  didst  not  seek  the  poet's  wreath 

But  too  soon  didst  win  it ; 
Without  't  was  green,  but  underneath 
Were  scorn  and  loneliness  and  death, 
Gnawing  the  brain  with  burning  teeth. 

And  making  mock  within  it. 
Thou,  who  wast  full  of  nobleness, 
Whose  very  life-blood  't  was  to  bless, 

Whose  soul's  one  law  was  giving, 
Must  bandy  words  with  wickedness, 
Haggle  with  hunger  and  distress, 


A    DIRGE.  117 

To  win  that  death  which  worldliness 
Calls  bitterly  a  living. 

"Thou  sow'st  no  gold,  and  shalt  not  reap  !  " 

Muttered  earth,  turning  in  her  sleep  ; 

"  Come  home  to  the  Eternal  Deep !" 

Murmured  a  voice,  and  a  wide  sweep 

Of  wings  through  thy  soul's  hush  did  creep. 

As  of  thy  doom  o'erflying  ; 
It  seem'd  that  thy  strong  heart  would  leap 
Out  of  thy  breast,  and  thou  didst  weep, 

But  not  with  fear  of  dying  ; 
Men  could  not  fathom  thy  deep  fears, 
They  could  not  understand  thy  tears, 
The  hoarded  agony  of  years 

Of  bitter  self-denying. 
So  once,  when  high  above  the  spheres 
Thy  spirit  sought  its  starry  peers, 
It  came  not  back  to  face  the  jeers 

Of  brothers  who  denied  it ; 
Star-crowned,  thou  dost  possess  the  deeps 
Of  God,  and  thy  white  body  sleeps 
Where  the  lone  pine  forever  keeps 

Patient  watch  beside  it. 

Poet !   underneath  the  turf. 

Soft  thou  sleepest,  free  from  morrow. 
Thou  hast  struggled  through  the  surf 

Of  wild  thoughts  and  want  and  sorrow. 


Il8  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Now,  beneath  the  moaning  pine, 

Full  of  rest,  thy  body  lieth. 
While  far  up  is  clear  sunshine, 
Underneath  a  sky  divine. 

Her  loosed  wings  thy  spirit  trieth  ; 
Oft  she  strove  to  spread  them  here. 
But  they  were  too  white  and  clear 
For  our  dingy  atmosphere. 

Thy  body  findeth  ample  room 
In  its  still  and  grassy  tomb 

By  the  silent  river  ; 
But  thy  spirit  found  the  earth 
Narrow  for  the  mighty  birth 

Which  it  dreamed  of  ever ; 
Thou  wast  guilty  of  a  rhyme 
Learned  in  a  benigner  clime. 
And  of  that  more  grievous  crime, 
An  ideal  too  sublime 
For  the  low-hung  sky  of  Time. 

The  calm  spot  where  thy  body  lies 
Gladdens  thy  soul  in  Paradise, 

It  is  so  still  and  holy  ; 
Thy  body  sleeps  serenely  there, 
And  well  for  it  thy  soul  may  care, 
It  was  so  beautiful  and  fair, 

Lily  white  so  wholly. 


FANCIES  ABOUT  A    ROSEBUD.  IIQ 

From  so  pure  and  sweet  a  frame 
Thy  spirit  parted  as  it  came, 

Gentle  as  a  maiden  ; 
Now  it  lieth  full  of  rest  — 
Sods  are  lighter  on  its  breast 
Than  the  great,  prophetic  guest 

Wherewith  it  was  laden. 


FANCIES  ABOUT  A  ROSEBUD, 

PRESSED    IN    AN    OLD    COPY    OF    SPENSER. 

Who  prest  you  here  ?     The  Past  can  tell. 
When  summer  skies  were  bright  above. 

And  some  full  heart  did  leap  and  swell 
Beneath  the  white  new  moon  of  love. 

Some  Poet,  haply,  when  the  world 

Showed  like  a  calm  sea,  grand  and  blue, 

Ere  its  cold,  inky  waves  had  curled 

O'er  the  numb  heart  once  warm  and  true  ; 

When,  with  his  soul  brimful  of  morn. 
He  looked  beyond  the  vale  of  Time, 

Nor  saw  therein  the  dullard  scorn 
That  made  his  heavenliness  a  crime  ; 

When,  musing  o'er  the  Poets  olden, 

His  soul  did  like  a  sun  upstart 
To  shoot  its  arrows,  clear  and  golden, 

Through  slavery's  cold  and  darksome  heart. 


I20  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

Alas  !  too  soon  the  veil  is  lifted 

That  hangs  between  the  soul  and  pain, 

Too  soon  the  morning-red  hath  drifted 
Into  dull  cloud,  or  fallen  in  rain ! 

Or  were  you  prest  by  one  who  nurst 
Bleak  memories  of  love  gone  by, 

Whose  heart,  like  a  star  fallen,  burst 
In  dark  and  erring  vacancy  ? 

To  him  you  still  were  fresh  and  green 
As  when  you  grew  upon  the  stalk. 

And  many  a  breezy  summer  scene 

Came  back  —  and  many  a  moonlit  walk; 

And  there  would  be  a  hum  of  bees, 
A  smell  of  childhood  in  the  air, 

And  old,  fresh  feelings  cooled  the  breeze 
That,  like  loved  fingers,  stirred  his  hair! 

Then  would  you  suddenly  be  blasted 
By  the  keen  wind  of  one  dark  thought. 

One  nameless  woe,  that  had  outlasted 

The  sudden  blow  whereby  't  was  brought. 

Or  were  you  prest  here  by  two  lovers 
Who  seemed  to  read  these  verses  rare. 

But  found  between  the  antique  covers 
What  bpenser  could  not  prison  there  : 


FANCIES  ABOUT  A    ROSEBUD.  121 

Songs  which  his  glorious  soul  had  heard, 
But  his  dull  pen  could  never  write, 

Which  flew,  like  some  gold-winged  bird. 
Through  the  blue  heaven  out  of  sight  ? 

My  heart  is  with  them  as  they  sit, 

I  see  the  rosebud  in  her  breast, 
I  see  her  small  hand  taking  it 

From  out  its  odorous,  snowy  nest ; 

I  hear  him  swear  that  he  will  keep  it, 

In  memory  of  that  blessed  day, 
To  smile  on  it  or  over-weep  it 

When  she  and  spring  are  far  away. 

Ah  me !     I  needs  must  droop  my  head, 

And  brush  away  a  happy  tear. 
For  they  are  gone,  and,  dry  and  dead, 

The  rosebud  lies  before  me  here. 

Yet  is  it  in  no  stranger's  hand. 

For  I  will  guard  it  tenderly. 
And  it  shall  be  a  magic  wand 

To  bring  mine  own  true  love  to  me. 

My  heart  runs  o'er  with  sweet  surmises. 
The  while  my  fancy  weaves  her  rhyme, 

Kind  hopes  and  musical  surprises 

Throm:  round  me  from  the  olden  time. 


122  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

I  do  not  care  to  know  who  prest  you : 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 

That  some  heart's  love  and  longing  blest  you, 
Knitting  to-day  with  long-ago. 


NEW   YEAR'S    EVE,    1844. 

A     FRAGMENT. 

« 

The  night  is  calm  and  beautiful ;  the  snow 
Sparkles  beneath  the  clear  and  frosty  moon 
And  the  cold  stars,  as  if  it  took  delight 
In  its  own  silent  whiteness  ;  the  hushed  earth 
Sleeps  in  the  soft  arms  of  the  embracing  blue, 
Secure  as  if  angelic  squadrons  yet 
Encamped  about  her,  and  each  watching  star 
Gained  double  brightness  from  the  flashing  arms 
Of  winged  and  unsleeping  sentinels. 
Upward  the  calm  of  infinite  silence  deepens. 
The  sea  that  flows  between  high  heaven  and  earth, 
Musing"  by  whose  smooth  brink  we  sometimes  find 
A  stray  leaf  floated  from  those  happier  shores. 
And  hope,  perchance  not  vainly,  that  some  flower, 
Which  we  had  watered  with  our  holiest  tears, 
Pale  blooms,  and  yet  our  scanty  garden's  best, 
O'er  the  same  ocean  piloted  by  love. 
May  find  a  haven  at  the  feet  of  God, 
And  be  not  wholly  worthless  in  his  sight. 


jYElV    YEAR'S   EVE,    1S44.  1 23 

O,  high  dependence  on  a  higher  Power, 

Sole  stay  for  all  these  restless  faculties 

That  wander,  Ishmael-like,  the  desert  bare 

Wherein  our  human  knowledge  hath  its  home, 

Shifting  their  light-framed  tents  from  day  to  day, 

With  each  new-found  oasis,  wearied  soon, 

And  only  certain  of  uncertainty  ! 

O,  mighty  humbleness  that  feels  with  awe. 

Yet  with  a  vast  exulting  feels,  no  less, 

That  this  huge  Minster  of  the  Universe, 

Whose  smallest  oratories  are  glorious  worlds. 

With  painted  oriels  of  dawn  and  sunset ; 

Whose  carved  ornaments  are  systems  grand, 

Orion  kneeling  in  his  starry  niche, 

The  Lyre  whose  strings  give  music  audible 

To  holy  ears,  and  countless  splendors  more. 

Crowned  by  the  blazing  Cross  high-hung  o'er  all  ; 

Whose  organ  music  is  the  solemn  stops 

Of  endless  Change   breathed  through   by  endless 

Good  ; 
Whose  choristers  are  all  the  morning  stars  ; 
Whose  altar  is  the  sacred  human  heart 
Whereon  Love's  candles  burn  unquenchably. 
Trimmed  day  and  night  by  gentle-handed  Peace ; 
With  all  its  arches  and  its  pinnacles 
That  stretch  forever  and  forever  up, 
Is  founded  on  the  silent  heart  of  God, 
Silent,  yet  pulsing  forth  exhaustless  life 
Through  the  least  veins  of  all  created  things. 


124  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Fit  musings  these  for  the  departing  year ; 

And  God  be  thanked  for  such  a  crystal  night 

As  fills  the  spirit  with  good  store  of  thoughts, 

That,  like  a  cheering  fire  of  walnut,  crackle 

Upon  the  hearthstone  of  the  heart,  and  cast 

A  mild  home-glow  o'er  all  Humanity  ! 

Yes,  though  the  poisoned  shafts  of  evil  doubts 

Assail  the  skyey  panoply  of  Faith, 

Though  the  great  hopes  which  we  have  had  for 

man, 
Foes  in  disguise,  because  they  based  belief 
On  man's  endeavor,  not  on  God's  decree  — 
Though   these  proud-visaged  hopes,  once  turned 

to  fly, 
Hurl  backward  many  a  deadly  Parthian  dart 
That  rankles  in  the  soul  and  makes  it  sick 
With  vain  regret,  nigh  verging  on  despair  — ■ 
Yet,  in  such  calm  and  earnest  hours  as  this, 
We  well  can  feel  how  every  living  heart 
That  sleeps  to-night  in  palace  or  in  cot. 
Or  unroofed  hovel,  or  which  need  hath  known 
Of  other  homestead  than  the  arching  sky. 
Is  circled  watchfully  with  seraph  fires  ; 
How  our  own  erring  will  it  is  that  hangs 
The  flaming  sword  o'er  Eden's  unclosed  gate. 
Which  gives  free  entrance  to  the  pure  in  heart. 
And     with    its    guarding    walls    doth    fence    the 

meek. 


A'EW    YEAR'S  EVE,    jS^f.  1 25 

Sleep  then,  O  Earth,  in  thy  blue-vaulted  cradle,' 

Bent  over  always  by  thy  mother  Heaven  ! 

We  all  are  tall  enough  to  reach  God's  hand. 

And  angels  are  no  taller  :  looking  back 

Upon  the  smooth  wake  of  a  year  o'erpast, 

We  see  the  black  clouds  furling,  one  by  one, 

From  the  advancing  majesty  of  Truth, 

And    something    won    for    Freedom,  whose   least 

gain 
Is  as  a  firm  and  rock-built  citadel 
Wherefrom  to  launch  fresh  battle  on  her  foes  ; 
Or,  leaning  from  the  time's  extremest  prow. 
If  we  gaze  forward  through  the  blinding  spray, 
And  dimly  see  how  much  of  ill  remains, 
How  many  fetters  to  be  sawn  asunder 
By  the  slow  toil  of  individual  zeal, 
Or  haply  rusted  by  salt  tears  in  twain, 
We  feel,  with  something  of  a  sadder  heart, 
Yet  bracing  up  our  bruised  mail  the  while. 
And  fronting  the  old  foe  with  fresher  spirit. 
How  great  it  is  to  breathe  with  human  breath, 
To  be  but  poor  foot-soldiers  in  the  ranks 
Of  our  old  exiled  king.  Humanity  ; 
Encamping  after  every  hard-won  field 
Nearer  and  nearer  Heaven's  happy  plains. 

• 
Many  great  souls  have  gone  to  rest,  and  sleep 
Under  this  armor,  free  and  full  of  peace  : 


126  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

If  these  have  left  the  earth,  yet  Truth  remains. 

Endurance,  too,  the  crowning  faculty 

Of  noble  minds,  and  Love,  invincible 

By  any  weapons  ;  and  these  hem  us  round 

With  silence  such  that  all  the  groaning  clank 

Of  this  mad  engine  men  have  made  of  earth 

Dulls  not  some  ears  for  catching  purer  tones. 

That  wander  from  the  dim  surrounding  vast, 

Or  far  more  clear  melodious  prophecies, 

The  natural  music  of  the  heart  of  man, 

Which  by  kind  Sorrow's  ministry  hath  learned 

That  the  true  sceptre  of  all  power  is  love 

And  humbleness  the  palace-gate  of  truth. 

What  man  with  soul  so  blind  as  sees  not  here 

The  first  faint  tremble  of  Hope's  morning-star, 

Foretelling  how  the  God-forged  shafts  of  dawn, 

Fitted  already  on  their  golden  string. 

Shall  soon  leap  earthward  with  exulting  flight 

To  thrid  the  dark  heart  of  that  evil  faith 

Whose  trust  is  in  the  clumsy  arms  of  Force, 

The  ozier  hauberk  of  a  ruder  age  ? 

Freedom  !  thou  other  name  for  happy  Truth, 

Thou   warrior-maid,    whose    steel-clad    feet    were 

never 
Out  of  the  stirrup,  nor  thy  lance  uncouched. 
Nor  thy  fierce  eye  enticed  from  its  watch, 
Thou  hast  learned  now,  by  hero-blood  in  vain 
Poured  to  enrich  the  soil  which  tyrants  reap  ; 


A  MYSTICAL  BALLAD.  1 27 

By  wasted  lives  of  prophets,  and  of  those 
Who,  by  the  promise  in  their  souls  upheld, 
Into  the  red  arms  of  a  fiery  death 
Went  blithely  as  the  golden-girdled  bee 
Sinks  in  the  sleepy  poppy's  cup  of  flame 
By  the  long  woes  of  nations  set  at  war, 
That  so  the  swollen  torrent  of  their  wrath 
May  find  a  vent,  else  sweeping  off  like  straws 
The  thousand  cobweb  threads,  grown  cable-huge 
By  time's  long  gathered  dust,  but  cobwebs  still. 
Which  bind  the  Many  that  the  Few  may  gain 
Leisure  to  wither  by  the  drought  of  ease 
What    heavenly   germs    in  their   own  souls  were 

sown  ;  — 
By  all  these  searching  lessons  thou  hast  learned 
To  throw  aside  thy  blood-stained  helm  and  spear 
And  with  thy  bare  brow  daunt  the  enemy's  front, 
Knowing  that  God  will  make  the  lily  stalk, 
In  the  soft  grasp  of  naked  Gentleness, 
Stronger  than  iron  spear  to  shatter  through 
The  sevenfold  toughness  of  Wrong's  idle  shield. 


A   MYSTICAL   BALLAD. 

I. 
The  sunset  scarce  had  dimmed  away 
Into  the  twilight's  doubtful  gray  ; 
One  long  cloud  o'er  the  horizon  lay. 


128  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Neath  which,  a  streak  of  bluish  white, 
Wavered  between  the  day  and  night ; 
Over  the  pine  trees  on  the  hill 
The  trembly  evening-star  did  thrill, 
And  the  new  moon,  with  slender  rim, 
Through  the  elm  arches  gleaming  dim, 
Filled  memory's  chalice  to  the  brim. 

ir. 
On  such  an  eve  the  heart  doth  grow 
Full  of  surmise,  and  scarce  can  know 
If  it  be  now  or  long  ago, 
Or  if  indeed  it  doth  exist  ;  — 
A  wonderful  enchanted  mist 
From  the  new  moon  doth  wander  out. 
Wrapping  all  things  in  mystic  doubt, 
So  that  this  world  doth  seem  untrue, 
And  all  our  fancies  to  take  hue 
From  some  life  ages  since  gone  through. 

III. 
The  maiden  sat  and  heard  the  flow 
Of  the  west  wind  so  soft  and  low 
The  leaves  scarce  quivered  to  and  fro  ; 
Unbound,  her  heavy  golden  hair 
Rippled  across  her  bosom  bare, 
Which  gleamed  with  thrilling  snowy  white 
Far  through  the  magical  moonlight : 


A   MYSTICAL   BALLAD.  1 29 

The  breeze  rose  with  a  rustling  swell, 
And  from  afar  there  came  the  smell 
Of  a  long-forgotten  lily-bell. 

IV. 

The  dim  moon  rested  on  the  hill, 
But  silent,  without  thought  or  will. 
Where  sat  the  dreamy  maiden  still ; 
And  n'ow  the  moon's  tip,  like  a  star, 
Drew  down  below  the  horizon's  bar  ; 
To  her  black  noon  the  night  hath  grown, 
Yet  still  the  maiden  sits  alone, 
Pale  as  a  corpse  beneath  a  stream 
And  her  white  bosom  still  doth  gleam 
Through  the  deep  midnight  like  a  dream. 


Cloudless  the  morning  came  and  fair. 

And  lavishly  the  sun  doth  share 

His  gold  among  her  golden  hair. 

Kindling  it  all,  till  slowly  so 

A  glory  round  her  head  doth  glow  ; 

A  withered  flower  is  in  her  hand, 

That  grew  in  some  far  distant  land, 

And,  silently  transfigured. 

With  wide  calm  eyes,  and  undrooped  head, 

They  found  the  stranger-maiden  dead. 


I30  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

VI. 
A  youth,  that  morn,  'neath  other  skies, 
Felt  sudden  tears  burn  in  his  eyes, 
And  his  heart  throng  with  memories  ; 
All  things  without  him  seemed  to  win 
Strange  brotherhood  with  things  within. 
And  he  forever  felt  that  he 
Walked  in  the  midst  of  mystery. 
And  thenceforth,  why,  he  could  not  tell, 
His  heart  would  curdle  at  the  smell 
Of  his  once-cherished  lily-bell. 

VII. 

Something  from  him  had  passed  away  ; 
Some  shifting  trembles  of  clear  day, 
Through  starry  crannies  in  his  clay, 
Grew  bright  and  steadfast,  more  and  more. 
Where  all  had  been  dull  earth  before ; 
And,  through  these  chinks,  like  him  of  old, 
His  spirit  converse  high  did  hold 
With  clearer  loves  and  wider  powers. 
That  brought  him  dewy  fruits  and  flowers 
From  far  Elysian  groves  and  bowers. 

VIII. 

Just  on  the  farther  bound  of  sense, 
Unproved  by  outward  evidence. 
But  known  by  a  deep  influence 


A    MYSTICAL   BALLAD.  131 

Which  through  our  grosser  clay  cloth  shine 
With  light  unwaning  and  divine, 
Beyond  where  highest  thought  can  fly 
Stretcheth  the  world  of  Mystery  — 
And  they  not  greatly  overween 
Who  deem  that  nothing  true  hath  been 
Save  the  unspeakable  Unseen. 

IX. 

One  step  beyond  life's  work-day  things, 
One  more  beat  of  the  soul's  broad  wings, 
One  deeper  sorrow  sometimes  brings 
The  spirit  into  that  great  Vast 
Where  neither  future  is  nor  past ; 
None  knoweth  how  he  entered  there, 
But,  waking,  finds  his  spirit  where 
He  thought  an  angel  could  not  soar. 
And,  what  he  called  false  dreams  before, 
The  very  air  about  his  door. 

X. 

These  outward  seemings  are  but  shows 
Whereby  the  body  sees  and  knows  ; 
Far  down  beneath,  forever  flows 
A  stream  of  subtlest  sympathies 
That  make  our  spirits  strangely  wise 
In  awe,  and  fearful  bodings  dim 
Which,  from  the  sense's  outer  rim. 


132  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Stretch  forth  beyond  our  thought  and  sight, 
Fine  arteries  of  circling  light. 
Pulsed  outward  from  the  Infinite. 


OPENING    POEM    TO 

A   YEAR'S    LIFE. 

Hope  first  the  youthful  Poet  leads. 
And  he  is  glad  to  follow  her ; 
Kind  is  she,  and  to  all  his  needs 
With  a  free  hand  doth  minister. 

But,  when  sweet  Hope  at  last  hath  fled, 
Cometh  her  sister.  Memory  ; 
She  wreathes  Hope's  garlands  round  her  head, 
And  strives  to  seem  as  fair  as  she. 

Then  Hope  comes  back,  and  by  the  hand 
She  leads  a  child  most  fair  to  see. 
Who  with  a  joyous  face  doth  stand 
Uniting  Hope  and  Memory. 

So  brighter  grew  the  Earth  around, 
And  bluer  grew  the  sky  above ; 
The  Poet  now  his  guide  hath  found. 
And  follows  in  the  steps  of  Love. 


A   YEAR'S  LIFE.  1 33 

DEDICATION 

TO  VOLUME  OF  POEMS  ENTITLED 

A    YEAR'S    LIFE. 

The  gentle  Una  I  have  loved, 

The  snowy  maiden,  pure  and  mild, 

Since  ever  by  her  side  I  roved, 

Through  ventures  strange,  a  wondering  child. 

In  fantasy  a  Red  Cross  Knight, 

Burning  for  her  dear  sake  to  fight. 

If  there  be  one  who  can,  like  her, 
Make  sunshine  in  life's  shady  places. 
One  in  whose  holy  bosom  stir 
As  many  gentle  household  graces  — 
And  such  I  think  there  needs  must  be  — 
Will  she  accept  this  book  from  me } 


THRENODIA. 

Gone,  gone  from  us  !  and  shall  we  see 

Those  sybil-leaves  of  destiny. 

Those  calm  eyes,  nevermore  ^ 

Those  deep,  dark  eyes  so  warm  and  bright. 

Wherein  the  fortunes  of  the  man 

Lay  slumbering  in  prophetic  light. 


134  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

In  characters  a  child  might  scan  ? 
So  bright,  and  gone  forth  utterly  ? 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

The  stars  of  those  two  gentle  eyes 
Will  shine  no  more  on  earth  ; 
Quenched  are  the  hopes  that  had  their  birth, 
As  we  watched  them  slowly  rise. 
Stars  of  a  mother's  fate  ; 
And  she  would  read  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Pondering,  as  she  sate. 
Over  their  dear  astrology, 
Which  she  had  conned  and  conned  before, 
Deeming  she  needs  must  read  aright 
What  was  writ  so  passing  bright. 
And  yet,  alas  !  she  knew  not  why, 
Her  voice  would  falter  in  its  song, 
And  tears  would  slide  from  out  her  eye. 
Silent,  as  they  were  doing  wrong. 
Her  heart  was  like  a  wind-flower,  bent 
Even  to  breaking  with  the  balmy  dew. 
Turning  its  heavenly  nourishment 
(That  filled  with  tears  its  eyes  of  blue. 
Like  a  sweet  suppliant  that  weeps  in  prayer. 
Making  her  innocency  show  more  fair. 
Albeit  unwitting  of  the  ornament,) 
Into  a  load  too  great  for  it  to  bear  : 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 


THRENODIA.  1 35 

The  tongue,  that  scarce  had  learned  to  claim 
An  entrance  to  a  mother's  heart 
By  that  dear  talisman,  a  mother's  name, 
Sleeps  all  forgetful  of  its  art  ! 
I  loved  to  see  the  infant  soul 
(How  mighty  in  the  weakness 
Of  its  untutored  meekness  ! ) 
Peep  timidly  from  out  its  nest, 
His  lips,  the  while, 
Fluttering  with  half-fledged  words. 
Or  hushing  to  a  smile 
That  more  than  words  expressed, 
When  his  glad  mother  on  him  stole 
And  snatched  him  to  her  breast ! 
O,  thoughts  were  brooding  in  those  eyes. 
That  would  have  soared  like  strong-winged  birds 
Far,  far  into  the  skies. 
Gladdening  the  earth  with  song 
And  gushing  harmonies. 
Had  he  but  tarried  with  us  long! 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

How  peacefully  they  rest, 
Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast. 
Those  small,  white   hands  that  ne'er  were  still 

before. 
But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 


1 36  LOWELL  'S  POEMS. 

Or  the  plain  cross  that  on  her  breast  she  wore  ! 

Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 

To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 

That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise 

Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 

To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm  — 

Sweet  thoughts !  they  made  her  eyes  as  sweet. 

How  quiet  are  the  hands 

That  wove  those  pleasant  bands ! 

But  that  they  do  not  rise  and  sink 

With  his  calm  breathing,  I  should  think 

That  he  were  dropped  asleep ; 

Alas  !  too  deep,  too  deep 

In  this  his  slumber! 

Time  scarce  can  number 

The  years  ere  he  will  wake  again  — 

O,  may  we  see  his  eyelids  open  then  ! 

O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

As  the  airy  gossamere. 
Floating  in  the  sunlight  clear. 
Where'er  it  toucheth  clinging  tightly 
Round  glossy  leaf  or  stump  unsightly, 
So  from  his  spirit  wandered  out 
Tendrils  spreading  all  about, 
Knitting  all  things  to  its  thrall 
With  a  perfect  love  of  all  : 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 


THRENODIA.  1 37 

He  did  but  float  a  little  way 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples  play, 
Or  listening  to  their  fairy  chime  ; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale  ; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way. 
And,  putting  to  the  shore 
While  yet  't  was  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way. 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more  ! 
No  jarring  did  he  feel, 
No  grating  on  his  vessel's  keel  ; 
A  strip  of  silver  sand 
Mingled  the  waters  with  the  land 
Where  he  was  seen  no  more  : 
O  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

Full  short  his  journey  was  ;  no  dust 
Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave  ; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must. 
He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 
He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his  way 
And  wandered  hither,  so  his  stay 
With  us  was  short,  and  't  was  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  Earth's  clod. 
Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God  ; 
O  blest  word  —  Evermore  ! 


1 3 S  LO WELL 'S  POEMS. 

THE    SERENADE. 

Gentle,  Lady,  be  thy  sleeping, 
Peaceful  may  thy  dreamings  be, 
While  around  thy  soul  is  sweeping, 
,     Dreamy-winged,  our  melody  ; 
Chant  we.  Brothers,  sad  and  slow, 
Let  our  song  be  soft  and  low 
As  the  voice  of  other  years, 
Let  our  hearts  within  us  melt, 
To  gentleness,  as  if  we  felt 
The  dropping  of  our  mother's  tears. 

Lady !  now  our  song  is  bringing 
Back  again  thy  childhood's  hours  — 
Hearest  thou  the  humbee  singing 
Drowsily  among  the  flowers  .-' 
Sleepily,  sleepily 
In  the  noontide  swayeth  he, 
Half  rested  on  the  slender  stalks 
That  edge  those  well-known  garden  walks  ; 
Hearest  thou  the  fitful  whirring 
Of  the  humbird's  viewless  wings  — 
Feel'st  not  round  thy  heart  the  stirring 
Of  childhood's  half-forgotten  things.? 

Seest  thou  the  dear  old  dwelling 
With  the  woodbine  round  the  door } 


THE  SERENADE.  I  39 

Brothers,  soft  !  her  breast  is  swelling 

With  the  busy  thoughts  of  yore  ; 

Lowly  sing  yc,  sing  ye  mildly, 

Rouse  her  spirit  not  so  wildly. 

Lest  she  sleep  not  any  more. 

'T  is  the  pleasant  summertide, 

Open  stands  the  window  wide  — 

Whose  voices,  Lady,  art  thou  drinking? 

Who  sings  that  best  beloved  tune 

In  a  clear  note,  rising,  sinking, 

Like  a  thrush's  song  in  June  ? 

Whose  laugh  is  that  which  rings  so  clear 

And  joyous  in  thine  eager  ear  ? 

Lower,  Brothers,  yet  more  low 
Weave  the  song  in  mazy  twines  ; 
She  heareth  now  the  west  wind  blow 
At  evening  through  the  clump  of  pines  ; 
O  !  mournful  is  their  tune. 
As  of  a  crazed  thing 
Who,  to  herself  alone, 
Is  ever  murmuring. 

Through  the  night  and  through  the  day. 
For  something  that  hath  passed  away. 
Often,  Lady,  hast  thou  listened, 
Often  have  thy  blue  eyes  glistened, 
Where  the  summer  evening  breeze 
Moaned  sadly  through  those  lonely  trees. 


1 40  LO WELL 'S  P OEMS. 

Or  with  the  fierce  wind  from  the  north 

Wrung  their  mournful  music  forth. 

Ever  the  river  floweth 

In  an  unbroken  stream, 

Ever  the  west  wind  bloweth. 

Murmuring  as  he  goeth, 

And  mingling  with  her  dream  ; 

Onward  still  the  river  sweepeth 

With  a  sound  of  long-agone ; 

Lowly,  Brothers,  lo  !  she  weepeth. 

She  is  now  no  more  alone ; 

Long-loved  forms  and  long-loved  faces 

Round  about  her  pillow  throng. 

Through  her  memory's  desert  places 

Flow  the  waters  of  our  song. 

Lady  !  if  thy  life  be  holy 

As  when  thou  wert  yet  a  child, 

Though  our  song  be  melancholy, 

It  will  stir  no  anguish  wild  ; 

For  the  soul  that  hath  lived  well, 

For  the  soul  that  child-like  is. 

There  is  quiet  in  the  spell 

That  brings  back  early  memories. 


so  JVC.  141 

SONG. 

I. 
Lift  up  the  curtains  of  thine  eyes 

And  let  their  light  outshine  ! 
Let  me  adore  the  mysteries 

Of  those  mild  orbs  of  thine, 
Which  ever  queenly  calm  do  roll. 
Attuned  to  an  ordered  soul ! 

II. 

Open  thy  lips  yet  once  again 

And,  while  my  soul  doth  hush 
"With  awe,  pour  forth  that  holy  strain 

Which  seemeth  me  to  gush, 
A  fount  of  music,  running  o'er 
From  thy  deep  spirit's  inmost  core  ! 

III. 
The  melody  that  dwells  in  thee 

Begets  in  me  as  well 
A  spiritual  harmony, 

A  mild  and  blessed  spell ; 
Far,  far  above  earth's  atmosphere 
I  rise,  whene'er  thy  voice  I  hear. 


1 43  LOWELL  'S  POEMS. 


THE   DEPARTED. 

Not  they  alone  are  the  departed, 
Who  have  laid  them  down  to  sleep 
In  the  grave  narrow  and  lonely, 
Not  for  them  only  do  I  vigils  keep, 
Not  for  them  only  am  I  heavy-hearted. 
Not  for  them  only  ! 

Many,  many,  there  are  many 
Who  no  more  are  with  me  here, 
As  cherished,  as  beloved  as  any 
Whom  I  have  seen  upon  the  bier. 
I  weep  to  think  of  those  old  faces. 
To  see  them  in  their  grief  or  mirth  ; 
I  weep  —  for  there  are  empty  places 
Around  my  heart's  once  crowded  hearth  ; 
The  cold  ground  doth  not  cover  them, 
The  grass  hath  not  grown  over  them. 
Yet  are  they  gone  from  me  on  earth  ;  — 
O  !  how  more  bitter  is  this  weeping, 
Than  for  those  lost  ones  who  are  sleeping 
Where  sun  will  shine  and  flowers  blow. 
Where  gentle  winds  will  whisper  low. 
And  the  stars  have  them  in  their  keeping ! 
Wherefore  from  me  who  loved  you  so, 
O  !  wherefore  did  ye  go  t 


THE  DEPARTED.  1 43 

I  have  shed  full  many  a  tear, 
I  have  wrestled  oft  in  prayer  — 
But  ye  do  not  come  again  ; 
How  could  anything  so  dear, 
How  could  anything  so  fair. 
Vanish  like  the  summer  rain  ? 
No,  no,  it  cannot  be. 
But  ye  are  still  with  me ! 

And  yet,  O  !  where  art  thou, 
Childhood,  with  sunny  brow 
And  floating  hair  ? 
Where  art  thou  hiding  now  ? 
I  have  sought  thee  everywhere, 
All  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
Of  those  garden-walks  of  ours  — 
Thou  art  not  there  ! 
When  the  shadow  of  Night's  wings 
Hath  darkened  all  the  Earth, 
I  listen  for  thy  gambolings 
Beside  the  cheerful  hearth  — 
Thou  art  not  there  ! 
I  listen  to  the  far-off  bell, 
I  murmur  o'er  the  little  songs 
Which  thou  didst  love  so  well, 
Pleasant  memories  come  in  throngs 
And  mine  eyes  are  blurred  with  tears, 
But  no  glimpse  of  thee  appears  : 


1 44  LOl VELL  'S  P OEMS. 

Lonely  am  I  in  the  Winter,  lonely  in  the  Spring, 
Summer  and  Harvest  bring  no  trace  of  thee — - 
Oh  !  whither,  whither  art  thou  wandering. 
Thou  who  didst  once  so  cleave  to  me  ? 

And  Love  is  gone  ;  — 
I  have  seen  him  come, 
I  have  seen  him,  too,  depart, 
Leaving  desolate  his  home. 
His  bright  home  in  my  heart. 
I  am  alone  ! 

Cold,  cold  is  his  hearth-stone. 
Wide  open  stands  the  door ; 
The  frolic  and  the  gentle  one 
Shall  I  see  no  more,  no  more  ? 
At  the  fount  the  bowl  is  broken, 
I  shall  drink  it  not  again, 
All  my  longing  prayers  are  spoken, 
And  felt,  ah,  woe  is  me,  in  vain  ! 
Oh,  childish  hopes  and  childish  fancies, 
Whither  have  ye  fled  away  ? 
I  long  for  you  in  mournful  trances, 
I  long  for  )-()u  by  night  and  day ; 
Beautiful  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
Might  I  but  win  you  back  once  more. 
Might  ye  about  my  being  twine 
And  cluster  as  ye  did  of  yore ! 
O  !  do  not  let  me  pray  in  vain  — 


THE  DEPARTED.  1 45 

How  good  and  happy  I  should  be, 

How  free  from  every  shade  of  pain, 

If  ye  would  come  again  to  me  ! 

O,  come  again  !  come,  come  again  ! 

Hath  the  sun  forgot  its  brightness, 

Have  the  stars  forgot  to  shine, 

That  they  bring  not  their  wonted  lightness 

To  this  weary  heart  of  mine  ? 

'T  is  not  the  sun  that  shone  on  thee, 

Happy  childhood,  long  ago  — 

Not  the  same  stars  silently 

Looking  on  the  same  bright  snow  — 

Not  the  same  that  Love  and  I 

Together  watched  in  days  gone  by  ! 

No,  not  the  same,  alas  for  me  ! 

Would  God  that  those  who  early  went 
To  the  house  dark  and  low. 
For  whom  our  mourning  heads  were  bent, 
For  whom  our  steps  were  slow  ; 
O,  would  that  these  alone  had  left  us. 
That  Fate  of  these  alone  had  reft  us. 
Would  God  indeed  that  it  were  so  ! 
Many  leaves  too  soon  must  wither. 
Many  flowers  too  soon  must  die. 
Many  bright  ones  wandering  hither, 
We  know  not  whence,  we  know  not  why, 
Like  the  leaves  and  like  the  flowers, 


1 46  LO  WELL  'S  POEMS. 

Vanish,  ere  the  summer  hours, 

That  brought  them  to  us,  have  gone  by. 

O  for  the  hopes  and  for  the  feelings, 
Childhood,  that  I  shared  with  thee  — 
The  high  resolves,  the  bright  revealings 
Of  the  soul's  might,  which  thou  gav'st  me. 
Gentle  Love,  woe  worth  the  day. 
Woe  worth  the  hour  when  thou  wert  born, 
Woe  worth  the  day  thou  fled'st  away  — 
A  shade  across  the  wind-waved  corn  — 
A  dewdrop  falling  from  the  leaves 
Chance-shaken  in  a  summer's  morn  ! 
Woe,  woe  is  me  !  my  sick  heart  grieves, 
Companionless  and  anguish-worn ! 
I  know  it  well,  our  manly  years 
Must  be  baptized  in  bitter  tears  ; 
Full  many  fountains  must  run  dry 
That  youth  has  dreamed  for  long  hours  by, 
Choked  by  convention's  siroc  blast 
Or  drifting  sands  of  many  cares ; 
Slowly  they  leave  us  all  at  last. 
And  cease  their  flowins:  unawares. 


THE  BOBOLINK.  147 

THE  BOBOLINK. 

Anacreon  of  the  meadow, 
Drunk  with  the  joy  of  spring ! 
Beneath  the  tall  pine's  voiceful  shadow 
I  lie  and  drink  thy  jargoning ; 
My  soul  is  full  with  melodies, 
One  drop  would  overflow  it. 
And  send  the  tears  into  mine  eyes  — 
But  what  car'st  thou  to  know  it  ? 
Thy  heart  is  free  as  mountain  air, 
And  of  thy  lays  thou  hast  no  care. 
Scattering  them  gayly  everywhere, 
Happy,  unconscious  poet  ! 

Upon  a  tuft  of  meadow  grass, 
While  thy  loved-one  tends  the  nest. 
Thou  swayest  as  the  breezes  pass, 
Unburthening  thine  o'erfull  breast 
Of  the  crowded  songs  that  fill  it, 
Just  as  joy  may  choose  to  will  it. 
Lord  of  thy  love  and  liberty. 
The  blithest  bird  of  merry  May, 
Thou  turnest  thy  bright  eyes  on  me. 
That  say  as  plain  as  eye  can  say  — 
"  Here  sit  we,  here  in  the  summer  weather, 
I  and  my  modest  mate  together  ; 
Whatever  your  wise  thoughts  may  be, 


148  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Under  that  gloomy  old  pine  tree, 
We  do  not  value  them  a  feather." 

Now,  leaving  earth  and  me  behind, 
Thou  beatest  up  against  the  wind, 
Or,  floating  slowly  down  before  it, 
Above  thy  grass-hid  nest  thou  flutterest 
And  thy  bridal  love-song  utterest, 
Raining  showers  of  music  o'er  it, 
Weary  never,  still  thou  trillest, 
Spring-gladsome  lays, 
As  of  moss-rimmed  water-brooks 
Murmuring  through  pebbly  nooks 
In  quiet  summer  days. 
My  heart  with  happiness  thou  fillest, 
I  seem  again  to  be  a  boy 
Watching  thee,  gay,  blithesome  lover, 
O'er  the  bending  grass-tops  hover, 
Quivering  thy  wings  for  joy. 
There  's  something  in  the  apple-blossom, 
The  greening  grass  and  bobolink's  song. 
That  wakes  again  within  my  bosom 
Feelings  which  have  slumbered  long. 
As  long,  long  years  ago  I  wandered, 
I  seem  to  wander  even  yet. 
The  hours  the  idle  school-boy  squandered, 
The  man  would  die  ere  he  'd  forg-et 
O  hours  that  frosty  eld  deemed  wasted, 


THE  BOBOLINK.  1 49 

Nodding  his  gray  head  toward  my  books, 

I  dearer  prize  the  lore  I  tasted 

With  you,  among  the  trees  and  brooks, 

Than  all  that  I  have  gained  since  then 

From  learned  books  or  study-withered  men  ! 

Nature,  thy  soul  was  one  with  mine. 

And,  as  a  sister  by  a  younger  brother 

Is  loved,  each  flowing  to  the  other, 

Such  love  for  me  was  thine. 

Or  wert  thou  not  more  like  a  loving  mother 

With  sympathy  and  loving  power  to  heal, 

Against    whose    heart    my   throbbing   heart    I  'd 

lay 
And  moan  my  childish  sorrows  all  away, 
Till  calm  and  holiness  would  o'er  me  steal  ? 
Was  not  the  golden  sunset  a  dear  friend  ? 
Found  I  no  kindness  in  the  silent  moon. 
And  the  green  trees,  whose  tops    did    sway  and 

bend, 
Low  singing  evermore  their  pleasant  tune  ? 
Felt  I  no  heart  in  dim  and  solemn  woods  — 
No  loved-one's  voice  in  lonely  solitudes  ? 
Yes,  yes  !  unhoodwinked  then  my  spirit's  eyes, 
Blind  leaders  had  not  tcnischt  me  to  be  wise. 

Dear  hours  !  which  now  again  I  over-live, 
Hearing  and  seeing  with  the  ears  and  eyes 


ISO  LO  WELL  'S  POEMS. 

Of  cliildhood,  ye  were  bees,  that  to  the  hive    . 
Of  my  young  heart  came  laden  with  rich  prize, 
Gathered  in  fields  and  woods  and  sunny  dells,  to 

be 
My  spirit's  food  in  days  more  wintery. 
Yea,  yet  again  ye  come  !  ye  come  ! 
And,  like  a  child  once  more  at  home 
After  long  sojourning  in  alien  climes, 
I  lie  upon  my  mother's  breast. 
Feeling  the  blessedness  of  rest, 
And  dwelling  in  the  light  of  other  times. 

O  ye  whose  living  is  not  Life, 
Whose  dying  is  but  death, 
Song,  empty  toil  and  petty  strife, 
Rounded  with  loss  of  breath  ! 
Go,  look  on  Nature's  countenance. 
Drink  in  the  blessing  of  her  glance  ; 
Look  on  the  sunset,  hear  the  wind. 
The  cataract,  the  awful  thunder; 
Go,  worship  by  the  sea  ; 
Then,  and  then  only,  shall  ye  find, 
With  ever-growing  wonder, 
Man  is  not  all  in  all  to  ye  ; 
Go  with  a  meek  and  humble  soul. 
Then  shall  the  scales  of  self  unroll 
From  off  your  eyes — ■  the  weary  packs 
Drop  from  your  heavy-laden  backs  ; 


FORGETFULNESS.  1 5  I 

And  ye  shall  see, 
With  reverent  and  hopeful  eyes, 
Glowing  with  new-born  energies, 
How  great  a  thing  it  is  to  be  ! 


FORGETFULNESS. 

There  's  a  haven  of  sure  rest 

From  the  loud  world's  bewildering  stress 
As  a  bird  dreaming  on  her  nest, 
As  dew  hid  in  a  rose's  breast. 
As  Hesper  in  the  glowing  West  ; 
So  the  heart  sleeps 
In  thy  calm  deeps. 
Serene  Forgetfulness  ! 

No  sorrow  in  that  place  may  be, 

The  noise  of  life  grows  less  and  less  : 
As  moss  far  down  within  the  sea, 
As,  in  white  lily  caves,  a  bee, 
As  life  in  a  hazy  reverie  ; 

So  the  heart's  wave 

In  thy  dim  cave, 
Hushes,  Forgetfulness  ! 

Duty  and  care  fade  far  away 

What  toil  may  be  we  cannot  guess  : 
As  a  ship  anchored  in  the  bay, 


152  LO  WELL  'S  POEMS. 

As  a  cloud  at  summer-noon  astray, 
As  water-blooms  in  a  breezeless  day; 
So,  'neath  thine  eyes, 
The  full  heart  lies. 
And  dreams,  Forgetfulness ! 


SONG. 
I. 
What  reck  I  of  the  stars,  when  I 

May  gaze  into  thine  eyes. 
O'er  which  the  brown  hair  flowingly 

Is  parted  maidenwise 
From  thy  pale  forehead,  calm  and  bright, 
Over  thy  cheeks  so  rosy  white  ? 

II. 
What  care  I  for  the  red  moon-rise  ? 

Far  liefer  would  I  sit 
And  watch  the  joy  within  thine  eyes 

Gush  up  at  sight  of  it  ; 
Thyself  my  queenly  moon  shall  be. 
Ruling  my  heart's  deep  tides  for  me  ! 

III. 
What  heed  I  if  the  sky  be  blue  } 

So  are  thy  holy  eyes, 
And  bright  with  shadows  ever  new 

Of  changeful  sympathies, 
Which  in  thy  soul's  unruffled  deep 
Rest  evermore,  but  never  sleep. 


THE  POET.  153 


THE  POET. 


He  who  hath  felt  Life's  mystery 

Press  on  him  like  thick  night, 
Whose  soul  hath  known  no  history 

But  struggling  after  light  ;  — 
He  who  hath  seen  dim  shapes  arise 

In  the  soundless  depths  of  soul, 
Which  gaze  on  him  with  meaning  eyes 

Full  of  the  mighty  whole. 
Yet  will  no  word  of  healing  speak, 

Although  he  pray  night-long, 
"  O,  help  me,  save  me  !  I  am  weak. 

And  ye  are  wondrous  strong  !  "  — 
Who,  in  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 

Hath  felt  a  voice  of  might 
Come  echoing  through  the  halls  of  sleep 

From  the  lone  heart  of  Night, 
And,  starting  from  his  restless  bed. 

Hath  watched  and  wept  to  know 
What  meant  that  oracle  of  dread 

That  stirred  his  being  so  ; 
He  who  hath  felt  how  strong  and  great 

This  Godhke  soul  of  man, 
And  looked  full  in  the  eyes  of  Fate, 

Since  Life  and  Thought  began  ; 


154  LO  WELL  'S  P OEMS. 

The  armor  of  whose  moveless  trust 

Knoweth  no  spot  of  weakness, 
Who  hath  trod  fear  into  the  dust 

Beneath  the  feet  of  meekness  ;  — 
He  who  hath  calmly  borne  his  cross, 

Knowing  himself  the  king 
Of  time,  nor  counted  it  a  loss 

To  learn  by  suffering  ;  — 
And  who  hath  worshipped  woman  still 

With  a  pure  soul  and  lowly. 
Nor  ever  hath  in  deed  or  will 

Profaned  her  temple  holy  — 
He  is  the  Poet,  him  unto 

The  gift  of  song  is  given. 
Whose  life  is  lofty,  strong,  and  true, 

Who  never  fell  from  Heaven; 
He  is  the  Poet,  from  his  lips 

To  live  forevermore, 
Majestical  as  full-sailed  ships. 

The  words  of  Wisdom  pour. 


FLOWERS. 

"  Hail  be  thou,  holie  hearbe, 
Growing  on  the  ground, 
All  in  the  mount  Calvary 
First  wert  thou  found  ; 


FLOWERS.  155 

Thou  art  good  for  manie  a  sore, 
Thou  healest  manie  a  wound, 

In  the  name  of  sweete  Jesus 
I  take  thee  from  the  ground." 

—  Ancient  Chartn-versc. 


When,  from  a  pleasant  ramble,  home 

Fresh-stored  with  quiet  thoughts,  I  come, 

I  pluck  some  wayside  flower 

And  press  it  in  the  choicest  nook 

Of  a  much-loved  and  oft-read  book  ; 

And,  when  upon  its  leaves  I  look 

In  a  less  happy  hour. 

Dear  memory  bears  me  far  away 

Unto  her  fairy  bower. 

And  on  her  breast  my  head  I  lay. 

While,  in  a  motherly,  sweet  strain, 

She  sings  me  gently  back  again 

To  by-gone  feelings,  until  they 

Seem  children  born  of  yesterday. 

II. 

Yes,  many  a  story  of  past  hours 
I  read  in  these  dear  withered  flowers. 
And  once  again  I  seem  to  be 
Lying  beneath  the  old  oak  tree. 


156  LO  WELL  'S  P OEMS. 

And  looking  up  into  the  sky, 
Through  thick  leaves  rifted  fitfully, 
Lulled  by  the  rustling  of  the  vine, 
Or  the  faint  low  of  far-off  kine ; 
And  once  again  I  seem 
To  watch  the  whirling  bubbles  flee. 
Through  shade  and  gleam  alternately, 
Down  the  vine-bowered  stream  ; 
Or  'neath  the  odorous  linden  trees, 
When  summer  twilight  lingers  long, 
To  hear  the  flowing  of  the  breeze 
And  unseen  insects'  slumberous  song. 
That  mingle  into  one  and  seem 
Like  dim  murmurs  of  a  dream  ; 
Fair  faces,  too,  I  seem  to  see, 
Smiling  from  pleasant  eyes  at  me. 
And  voices  sweet  I  hear, 
That,  like  remembered  melody. 
Flow  through  my  spirit's  ear. 


III. 

A  poem  every  flower  is. 
And  every  leaf  a  line. 
And  with  delicious  memories 
They  fill  this  heart  of  mine  : 
No  living  blossoms  are  so  clear 
As  these  dead  relics  treasured  here  ; 


FLOWERS.  157 

One  tells  of  love,  of  friendship  one, 
Love's  quiet  after-sunset  time, 
When  the  all-dazzling  light  is  gone, 
And,  with  the  soul's  low  vesper-chime, 
O'er  half  its  heaven  doth  out-flow 
A  holy  calm  and  steady  glow. 
Some  are  gay  feast-song,  some  are  dirges. 
In  some  a  joy  with  sorrow  merges  ; 
One  sings  the  shadowed  woods,  and  one 

the  roar 
Of  ocean's  everlasting  surges. 
Tumbling  upon  the  beach's  hard-beat  floor. 
Or  sliding  backward  from  the  shore 
To  meet  the  landward  waves  and  slowly 

plunge  once  more. 
O  flowers  of  grace,  I  bless  ye  all 
By  the  dear  faces  ye  recall  ! 

IV. 

Upon  the  banks  of  Life's  deep  streams 
Full  many  a  flower  groweth. 
Which  with  a  wondrous  fragrance  teems, 
And  in  the  silent  water  gleams, 
And  trembles  as  the  water  floweth, 
Many  a  one  the  wave  upteareth. 
Washing  ever  the  roots  away. 
And  far  upon  its  bosom  beareth, 
To  bloom  no  more  in  Youth's  glad  May  ; 


158  LO  WELL  'S  P OEMS. 

As  farther  on  the  river  runs, 
Flowing  more  deep  and  strong, 
Only  a  few  pale,  scattered  ones 
Are  seen  the  dreary  banks  along  ; 
And  where  those  flowers  do  not  grow, 
The  river  floweth  dark  and  chill, 
Its  voice  is  sad,  and  with  its  flow 
Mingles  ever  a  sense  of  ill ; 
Then,  Poet,  thou  who  gather  dost 
Of  Life's  best  flowers  the  brightest, 
O,  take  good  heed  they  be  not  lost 
While  with  the  angry  flood  thou  fightest ! 

V. 

In  the  cool  grottos  of  the  soul, 
Whence  flows  thought's  crystal  river, 
Whence  songs  of  joy  forever  roll 
To  Him  who  is  the  Giver  — 
There  store  thou  them,  where  fresh  and 

green 
Their  leaves  and  blossoms  may  be  seen, 
A  spring  of  joy  that  faileth  never; 
There  store  thou  them,  and  they  shall  be 
A  blessing  and  a  peace  to  thee, 
And  in  their  youth  and  purity 
Thou  shalt  be  young  forever  ! 
Then,  with  their  fragrance  rich  and  rare, 
Thy  living  shall  be  rife, 


FLOWERS.  159 

Strength  shall  be  thine  thy  cross  to  bear, 
And  they  shall  be  a  chaplet  fair, 
Breathing  a  pure  and  holy  air. 
To  crown  thy  holy  life, 

VI. 

O  Poet !  above  all  men  blest. 
Take  heed  that  thus  thou  store  them  ; 
Love,  Hope,  and  Faith  shall  ever  rest. 
Sweet  birds  (upon  how  sweet  a  nest  !) 
Watchfully  brooding  o'er  them. 
And  from  those  flowers  of  Paradise 
Scatter  thou  many  a  blessed  seed, 
Wherefrom  an  offspring  may  arise 
To  cheer  the  hearts  and  light  the  eyes 
Of  after-voyagers  in  their  need. 
They  shall  not  fall  on  stony  ground, 
But,  yielding  all  their  hundred-fold, 
Shall  shed  a  peacefulness  around, 
Whose  strengthening  joy  may  not  be  told, 
So  shall  thy  name  be  blest  of  all, 
And  thy  remembrance  never  die ; 
For  of  that  seed  shall  surely  fall 
In  the  fair  garden  of  Eternity. 
Exult  then  in  the  nobleness 
Of  this  thy  work  so  holy. 
Yet  be  not  thou  one  jot  the  less 
Humble  and  meek  and  lowly. 


1 6o  LO WELL 'S  POEMS. 

But  let  thine  exultation  be 

The  reverence  of  a  bended  knee  ; 

And  by  thy  life  a  poem  write, 

Built  strongly  day  by  day  — 

And  on  the  rock  of  Truth  and  Right 

Its  deep  foundations  lay. 

VII. 

It  is  thy  DUTY  !     Guard  it  well  ! 
For  unto  thee  hath  much  been  given, 
And  thou  canst  make  this  life  a  Hell, 
Or  Jacob's-ladder  up  to  Heaven. 
Let  not  thy  baptism  in  Life's  wave 
Make  thee  like  him  whom  Homer  sing:s 
A  sleeper  in  a  living  grave. 
Callous  and  hard  to  outward  thino-s  ; 
But  open  all  thy  soul  and  sense 
To  every  blessed  influence 
That  from  the  heart  of  Nature  springs  : 
Then  shall  thy  Life-flowers  be  to  thee, 
When  thy  best  years  are  told, 
As  much  as  these  have  been  to  me  — 
Yea,  more,  a  thousand-fold  ! 


THE  LOVER.  l6l 

THE  LOVER, 
r. 

Go  from  the  world  from  East  to  West, 

Search  every  land  beneath  the  sky, 

You  cannot  find  a  man  so  blest, 

A  king  so  powerful  as  I, 

Though  you  should  seek  eternally. 

II. 

For  I  a  gentle  lover  be, 
Sitting  at  my  loved-one's  side  ; 
She  giveth  her  whole  soul  to  me 
Without  a  wish  or  thought  of  pride. 
And  she  shall  be  my  cherished  bride. 

III. 
No  show  of  gaudiness  hath  she, 
She  doth  not  flash  with  jewels  rare  ; 
In  beautiful  simplicity 
She  weareth  leafy  garlands  fair, 
Or  modest  flowers  in  her  hair. 

IV. 

Sometimes  she  dons  a  robe  of  green, 
Sometimes  a  robe  of  snowy  white. 
But,  in  whatever  garb  she  's  seen, 
It  seems  most  beautiful  and  right, 
And  is  the  loveliest  to  my  sight. 


1 62  LO  WELL  'S  POEMS. 

V. 
Not  I  her  lover  am  alone, 
Yet  unto  all  she  doth  suffice, 
None  jealous  is,  and  every  one 
Reads  love  and  truth  within  her  eyes, 
And  deemeth  her  his  own  dear  prize. 

VI. 

And  so  thou  art.  Eternal  Nature  ! 
Yes,  bride  of  Heaven,  so  thou  art  ; 
Thou  wholly  lovest  every  creature, 
Giving  to  each  no  stinted  part, 
But  filling  every  peaceful  heart. 


TO    E.    W.    Q.^ 

"  Dear  Child  !  dear  happy  Girl !  if  thou  appear 
Heedless  —  untouched  with  awe  or  serious  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year  ; 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not." 

—  Wordsworth. 

As  through  a  strip  of  sunny  light 

A  white  dove  flashes  swiftly  on, 

So  suddenly  before  my  sight 

Thou  gleamed'st  a  moment  and  wert  gone ; 


ro  E.  w.  G.  163 

And  yet  I  long  shall  bear  in  mind 

The  pleasant  thoughts  thou  left'st  behind. 

Thou  mad'st  me  happy  with  thine  eyes, 
And  happy  with  thine  open  smile, 
And,  as  I  write,  sweet  memories 
Come  thronging  round  me  all  the  while  ; 
Thou  mad'st  me  happy  with  thine  eyes  — 
And  gentle  feelings  long  forgot 
Looked  up  and  oped  their  eyes, 
Like  violets  when  they  see  a  spot 
Of  summer  in  the  skies. 

Around  thy  playful  lips  did  glitter 
Heat-lightnings  of  a  girlish  scorn  ; 
Harmless  they  were,  for  nothing  bitter 
In  thy  dear  heart  was  ever  born  — 
That  merry  heart  that  could  not  lie 
Within  its  warm  nest  quietly. 
But  ever  from  each  full,  dark  eye 
Was  looking  kindly  night  and  morn. 

There  was  an  archness  in  thine  eyes, 
Born  of  the  gentlest  mockeries. 
And  thy  light  laughter  rang  as  clear 
As  water-drops  I  loved  to  hear 
In  days  of  boyhood,  as  they  fell 
Tinkling  far  down  the  dim,  still  well ; 


1 64  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  with  its  sound  come  back  once  more 
The  feelings  of  my  early  years, 
And  half  aloud  I  murmured  o'er  — 
"Sure  I  have  heard  that  sound  befoi;e, 
It  is  so  pleasant  in  mine  ears." 

Whenever  thou  didst  look  on  me 
I  thought  of  merry  birds, 
And  something  of  spring's  melody 
Came  to  me  in  thy  words  ; 
Thy  thoughts  did  dance  and  bound  along 
Like  happy  children  in  their  play, 
Whose  hearts  run  over  into  song 
For  gladness  of  the  summer's  day  ; 
And  mine  grew  dizzy  with  the  sight, 
Still  feeling  lighter  and  more  light, 
Till,  joining  hands,  they  whirled  away. 
As  blithe  and  merrily  as  they. 

I  bound  a  larch-twig  round  with  flowers, 
Which  thou  didst  twine  among  thy  hair, 
And  gladsome  were  the  few,  short  hours 
When  I  was  with  thee  there ; 
So  now  that  thou  art  far  away. 
Safe-nestled  in  thy  warmer  clime. 
In  memory  of  a  happier  day 
I  twine  this  simple  wreath  of  rhyme. 


ISABEL.  165 

Dost  mind  how  she,  whom  thou  dost  love 
More  than  in  light  words  may  be  said, 
A  coronal  of  amaranth  wove 
About  thy  duly-sobered  head, 
Which  kept  itself  a  moment  still 
That  she  might  have  her  gentle  will  ? 
Thy  childlike  grace  and  purity 
O  keep  forevermore. 
And  as  thou  art,  still  strive  to  be, 
That  on  the  farther  shore 
Of  Time's  dark  waters  ye  may  meet. 
And  she  may  twine  around  thy  brow 
A  wreath  of  those  bright  flowers  that  grow 
Where  blessed  angels  set  their  feet ! 


ISABEL. 


As  THE  leaf  upon  the  tree, 

Fluttering,  gleaming  constantly, 

Such  a  lightsome  thing  was  she. 

My  gay  and  gentle  Isabel ! 

Her  heart  was  fed  with  love-springs  sweet. 

And  in  her  face  you  'd  see  it  beat 

To  hear  the  sound  of  welcome  feet  — 

And  were  not  mine  so,  Isabel  ? 

She  knew  it  not,  but  she  was  fair. 
And  like  a  moonbeam  was  her  hair. 


1 66  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

That  falls  where  flowing  ripples  are 

In  summer  evenings,  Isabel ! 

Her  heart  and  tongue  were  scarce  apart, 

Unwittingly  her  lips  would  part. 

And  love  came  gushing  from  her  heart, 

The  woman's  heart  of  Isabel. 

So  pure  her  flesh-garb,  and  like  dew, 
That  in  her  features  glimmered  through 
Each  working  of  her  spirit  true, 
In  wondrous  beauty,  Isabel ! 
A  sunbeam  struggling  through  thick  leaves, 
A  reaper's  song  'mid  yellow  sheaves, 
Less  gladsome  were  ;  —  my  spirit  grieves 
To  think  of  thee,  mild  Isabel  ! 

I  know  not  when  I  loved  thee  first ; 
Not  loving,  I  had  been  accurst, 
Yet,  having  loved,  my  heart  will  burst. 
Longing  for  thee,  dear  Isabel ! 
With  silent  tears  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
I  would  be  calm,  I  would  forget, 
But  thy  blue  eyes  gaze  on  me  yet. 
When  stars  have  risen,  Isabel. 

The  winds  mourn  for  thee,  Isabel, 
The  flowers  expect  thee  in  the  dell, 
Thy  gentle  spirit  loved  them  well, 
And  I  for  thy  sake,  Isabel ! 


MUSIC.  167 

The  sunsets  seem  less  lovely  now 
Than  when,  leaf  checkered,  on  thy  brow 
They  fell  as  lovingly  as  thou 
Lingered'st  till  moon-rise,  Isabel ! 

At  dead  of  night  I  seem  to  see 
Thy  fair,  pale  features  constantly 
Upturned  in  silent  prayer  for  me, 
O'er  moveless  clasped  hands,  Isabel ! 
I  call  thee,  thou  dost  not  reply ; 
The  stars  gleam  coldly  on  thine  eye, 
As  like  a  dream  thou  flittest  by, 
And  leav'st  me  weeping,  Isabel ! 


MUSIC. 
I. 

I  SEEM  to  lie  with  drooping  eyes, 

Dreaming  sweet  dreams. 
Half  longings  and  half  memories. 

In  woods  where  streams 
With  trembling  shades  and  whirling  gleams, 

Many  and  bright. 

In  song  and  light, 

Are  ever,  ever  flowing  ; 
While  the  wind,  if  we  list  to  the  rustling  grass, 
Which  numbers  his  footsteps  as  they  pass, 

Seems  scarcely  to  be  blowing  ; 


1 68  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  the  far-heard  voice  of  Spring, 

From  sunny  slopes  comes  wandering, 

Calling  the  violets  from  the  sleep, 

That  bound  them  under  the  snow-drifts  deep. 

To  open  their  childlike,  asking  eyes 

On  the  new  summer's  paradise. 

And  mingled  with  the  gurgling  waters  — 

As  the  dreamy  witchery 
Of  Acheloiis'  silver-voiced  daughters 

Rose  and  fell  with  the  heaving  sea, 

Whose  great  heart  swelled  with  ecstasy  — 
The  song  of  many  a  floating  bird. 

Winding  through  the  rifted  trees. 
Is  dreamily  half-heard  — 

A  sister  stream  of  melodies 
Rippled  by  the  flutterings 
Of  rapture-quivered  wings. 

II. 
And  now  beside  a  cataract 
I  lie,  and  through  my  soul, 
From  over  me  and  under, 
The  never-ceasing  thunder 
Arousingly  doth  roll ; 
Through  the  darkness  all  compact, 
Through  the  trackless  sea  of  gloom. 
Sad  and  deep  I  hear  it  boom  ; 
At  intervals  the  cloud  is  cracked 


MUSIC.  169 

And  a  livid  flash  doth  hiss 

Downward  from  its  floating  home, 
Lighting  up  the  precipice 

And  the  never-resting  foam 
With  a  dim  and  ghastly  glare, 
Which,  for  a  heart-beat,  in  the  air, 

Shows  the  sweeping  shrouds 

Of  the  midnight  clouds 
And  their  wildly-scattered  hair. 


III. 

Now  listening  to  a  woman's  tone, 
In  a  wood  I  sit  alone  — 
Alone  because  our  souls  are  one  ;  — 
All  around  my  heart  it  flows. 
Lulling  me  in  deep  repose  ; 
I  fear  to  speak,  I  fear  to  move, 
Lest  I  should  break  the  spell  I  love  - 
Low  and  gentle,  calm  and  clear, 
Into  my  inmost  soul  it  goes, 
As  if  my  brother  dear, 
Who  is  no  longer  here. 
Had  bended  from  the  sky 
And  murmured  in  my  ear 
A  strain  of  that  high  harmony, 
Which  they  may  sing  alone 
Who  worship  round  the  throne. 


I/O  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

IV. 

Now  in  a  fairy  boat, 

On  the  bright  waves  of  song, 
Full  merrily  I  float, 

Merrily  float  along  ; 

My  helm  is  veered,  I  care  not  how, 

My  white  sail  bellies  over  me, 
And  bright  as  gold  the  ripples  be 
That  plash  beneath  the  bow  ; 

Before,  behind, 

They  feel  the  wind. 

And  they  are  dancing  joyously  — 
Whfle,  faintly  heard,  along  the  far-off  shore 
The  surf  goes  plunging  with  a  lingering  roar; 

Or  anchored  in  a  shadowy  cove, 
Entranced  with  harmonies, 
Slowly  I  sink  and  rise 

As  the  slow  waves  of  music  move. 


Now  softly  dashing, 
Bubbling,  plashing. 
Mazy,  dreamy. 
Faint  and  streamy, 
Ripples  into  ripples  melt, 
Not  so  strongly  heard  as  felt ; 
Now  rapid  and  quick. 
While  the  heart  beats  thick. 


MUSIC.  171 

The  music's  silver  wavelets  crowd, 
Distinct  and  clear,  but  never  loud; 
And  now  all  solemnly  and  slow. 
In  mild,  deep  tones  they  warble  low, 
Like  the  glad  song  of  angels,  when 
They  sang  good  will  and  peace  to  men; 
Now  faintly  heard  and  far. 

As  if  the  spirit's  ears 
Had  caught  the  anthem  of  a  star 

Chanting  with  his  brother-spheres 
In  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 
When  the  body  is  asleep 
And  wondrous  shadows  pour  in  streams 
From  the  twofold  gate  of  dreams  ; 
Now  onward  roll  the  billows,  swelling 
With  a  tempest-sound  of  might, 
As  of  voices  doom  foretelling 

To  the  silent  ear  of  Night ; 
And  now  a  mingled  ecstasy 

Of  all  sweet  sounds  it  is  ;  — 

0  !  who  may  tell  the  agony 
Of  rapture  such  as  this  ? 

VI. 

1  have  dr.unk  of  the  drink  of  immortals, 

I  have  drunk  of  the  life-giving  wine. 
And  now  I  may  pass  the  bright  portals 
That  open  into  a  realm  divine ! 


172  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

I  have  drunk  it  through  mine  ears 

In  the  ecstasy  of  song, 
When  mine  eyes  would  fill  with  tears 

That  its  life  were  not  more  long ; 
I  have  drunk  it  through  mine  eyes 

In  beauty's  every  shape, 
And  now  around  my  soul  it  lies, 

No  juice  of  earthly  grape  ! 
Wings  !  wings  are  given  to  me, 

I  can  flutter,  I  can  rise, 
Like  a  new  life  gushing  through  me 

Sweep  the  heavenly  harmonies  ! 


SONG. 


0  !  I  MUST  look  on  that   sweet  face  once  more 

before  I  die  ; 
God  grant  that  it  may  lighten  up  with  joy  when 

I  draw  nigh  ; 
God  grant  that  she  may  look  on  me  as  kindly  as 

she  seems 
In  the  long  night,  the  restless  night,  i'  the  sunny 

land  of  dreams  ! 

1  hoped,  I  thought,  she  loved  me  once,  and  yet,  I 

know  not  why, 
There  is  a  coldness  in  her  speech,  and  a  coldness 
in  her  eye. 


SO.VG.  173 

Something  that  in  another's  look  would  not  seem 

cold  to  me, 
And    yet    like    ice   I   feel  it  chill    the    heart  of 

memory. 

She  does  not  come  to  greet  me  so  frankly  as  she 
did, 

And  in  her  utmost  openness  I  feel  there  's  some- 
thing hid  ; 

She  almost  seems  to  shun  me,  as  if  she  thought 
that  I 

Might  win  her  gentle  heart  again  to  feelings  long 
gone  by. 

I  sought  the  first  spring-buds  for  her,  the  fairest 

and  the  best. 
And  she  wore  them  for  their  loveliness  upon  her 

spotless  breast. 
The  blood-root  and  the  violet,  the  frail  anemone. 
She  wore  them,  and  alas !    I   deemed  it  was  for 

love  of  me ! 

As  flowers  in  a  darksome  place  stretch  forward  to 

the  light. 
So  to  the  memory  of  her  I  turn  by  day  and  night ; 
As  flowers   in  a  darksome  place  grow  thin   and 

pale  and  wan. 
So  is  it  with  my  darkened  heart,  now  that   her 

Ugcht  is  gone. 


174  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  thousand  Httle  things  that  love  doth  treasure 
up  for  aye, 

And  brood  upon  with  moistened  eyes  when  she 
that  's  loved  's  away, 

The  word,  the  look,  the  smile,  the  blush,  the  rib- 
bon that  she  wore. 

Each  day  they  grow  more  dear  to  me,  and  pain 
me  more  and  more. 

My  face  I  cover  with  my  hands,  and  bitterly  I  weep. 
That   the    quick-gathering    sands   of   life    should 

choke  a  love  so  deep, 
And  that  the  stream,  so  pure  and  bright,  must 

turn  it  from  its  track. 
Or  to  the  heart-springs,  whence  it   rose,  roll   its 

full  waters  back  ! 

As  calm  as  doth  the  lily  float  close  by  the  lakelet's 

brim, 
So  calm  and   spotless,   down   time's   stream,   her 

peaceful  days  did  swim. 
And  I  had  longed,  and  dreamed,  and  prayed,  that 

closely  by  her  side, 
Down   to  a  haven   still  and   sure,  my  happy  life 

might  glide. 

But  now,  alas  !    those  golden  days  of  youth   and 

hope  are  o'er, 
And  I  must  dream   those    dreams   of   joy,  those 

guiltless  dreams  no  more  ; 


IAN  THE.  175 

Yet  there  is  something  in  my  heart  that  whispers 

ceaselessly, 
"Would  God  that  I  might  see  that  face  once  more 

before  I  die  !  " 


lANTHE. 
I. 

There  is  a  light  within  her  eyes, 

Like  gleams  of  wandering  fire-flies  ; 

From  light  to  shade  it  leaps  and  moves 

Whenever  in  her  soul  arise 

The  holy  shapes  of  things  she  loves ; 

Fitful  it  shines  and  changes  ever, 

Like  star-lit  ripples  on  a  river, 

Or  summer  sunshine  on  the  eaves 

Of  silver-trembling  poplar  leaves. 

Where  the  lingering  dew-drops  quiver. 

I  may  not  tell  the  blessedness 

Her  mild  eyes  send  to  mine, 

The  sunset-tinted  haziness 

Of  their  mysterious  shine. 

The  dim  and  holy  mournfulness 

Of  their  mellow  light  divine  ; 

The  shadow  of  the  lashes  lie 

Over  them  so  lovingly. 

That  they  seem  to  melt  away 

In  a  doubtful  twilight-gray, 


176  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

While  I  watch  the  stars  arise 

In  the  evening  of  her  eyes. 

I  love  it,  yet  I  almost  dread 

To  think  what  it  foreshadoweth  ; 

And,  when  I  muse  how  I  have  read 

That  such  strange  light  betokened  death  — 

Instead  of  fire-fly  gleams,  I  see 

Wild  corpse-lights  gliding  waveringly. 

II. 
With  wayward  thoughts  her  eyes  are  bright. 
Like  shiftings  of  the  northern-light. 
Hither,  thither,  swiftly  glance  they. 
In  a  mazy  twining  dance  they, 
Like  ripply  lights  the  sunshine  weaves, 
Thrown  backward  from  a  shaken  nook, 
Below  some  tumbling  water-brook, 
On  the  o'erarching  platan-leaves. 
All  through  her  glowing  face  they  flit, 
And  rest  in  their  deep  dwelling-place, 
Those  fathomless  blue  eyes  of  hers. 
Till,  from  her  burning  soul  re-lit. 
While  her  upheaving  bosom  stirs, 
They  stream  again  across  her  face 
And  with  such  hope  and  glory  fill  it, 
Death  could  not  have  the  heart  to  chill  it. 
Yet  when  their  wild  light  fades  again, 
I  feel  a  sudden  sense  of  pain, 


lANTHE.  177 

As  if,  while  yet  her  eyes  were  gleaming, 

And  like  a  shower  of  sun-lit  rain 

Bright  fancies  from  her  face  were  streaming, 

Her  trembling  soul  might  flit  away 

As  swift  and  suddenly  as  they. 

HI. 

A  wild,  inspired  earnestness 

Her  inmost  being  fills, 
And  eager  self-forgetfulness. 

That  speaks  not  what  it  wills. 
But  what  unto  her  soul  is  given, 
A  living  oracle  from  Heaven, 
Which  scarcely  in  her  breast  is  born 
When  on  her  trembling  lips  it  thrills. 
And,  like  a  burst  of  golden  skies 
Through  storm-clouds  on  a  sudden  torn. 
Like  a  glory  of  the  morn, 
Beams  marvellously  from  her  eyes. 
And  then,  like  a  Spring-swollen  river, 
Roll  the  deep  waves  of  her  full-hearted  thought 
Crested  with  sun-lit  spray, 
Her  wild  lips  curve  and  quiver. 
And  my  rapt  soul,  on  the  strong  tide  upcaught, 
Unwittingly  is  borne  away. 
Lulled  by  a  dreamful  music  ever, 
Far  —  through  the  solemn  twilight-gray 
Of  hoary  woods  —  through  valleys  green 
Which  the  trailing  vine  embowers, 


IjS  LOWELL'S  POEMS, 

And  where  the  purple-clustered  grapes  are  seen 
Deep-glowing  through  rich  clumps  of  waving  flow- 
ers — 

Now  over  foaming  rapids  swept 

And  with  maddening  rapture  shook  — 
Now  gliding  where  the  water-plants  have  slept 

For  ages  in  a  moss-rimmed  nook  — 

Enwoven  by  a  wild-eyed  band 
Of  earth-forgetting  dreams, 

I  float  to  a  delicious  land 

By  a  sunset  heaven  spanned, 
And  musical  with  streams  ;  — 

Around,  the  calm,  majestic  forms 
And  god-like  eyes  of  early  Greece  I  see, 

Or  listen,  till  my  spirit  warms. 

To  songs  of  courtly  chivalry. 
Or  weep,  unmindful  if  my  tears  be  seen. 
For  the  meek,  suffering  love  of  poor  Undine, 

IV. 

Her  thoughts  are  never  memories, 
But  ever  changeful,  ever  new. 
Fresh  and  beautiful  as  dew 
That  in  a  dell  at  noontide  lies. 
Or,  at  the  close  of  summer  day. 
The  pleasant  breath  of  new-mown  hay : 
Swiftly  they  come  and  pass 
As  golden  birds  across  the  sun. 


JANTHE.  179 

As  light-gleams  on  tall  meadow-grass 
Which  the  wind  just  breathes  upon. 
And  when  she  speaks,  her  eyes  I  see 

Down-gushing  through  their  silken  lattices, 
Like  stars  that  quiver  tremblingly 
Through  leafy  branches  of  the  trees, 
And  her  pale  cheeks  do  flush  and  glow 
With  speaking  flashes  bright  and  rare 

As  crimson  North-lights  on  new-fallen  snow, 
From  out  the  veiling  of  her  hair  — 

Her  careless  hair  that  scatters  down 
On  either  side  her  eyes, 

A  waterfall  leaf-tinged  with  brown 
And  lit  with  the  sunrise. 

V. 

When  first  I  saw  her,  not  of  earth, 
But  heavenly  both  in  grief  and  mirth, 
I  thought  her ;  she  did  seem 
As  fair  and  full  of  mystery. 
As  bodiless,  as  forms  we  see 
In  the  rememberings  of  a  dream  ; 
A  moon-lit  mist,  a  strange,  dim  light. 
Circled  her  spirit  from  my  sight ;  — 
Each  day  more  beautiful  she  grew, 

More  earthly  every  day, 
Yet  that  mysterious,  moony  hue 

Faded  not  all  away  ; 


l8o  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

She  has  a  sister's  sympathy 
With  all  the  wanderers  of  the  sky, 
But  most  I  've  seen  her  bosom  stir 

When  moonlight  round  her  fell, 
For  the  mild  moon  it  loveth  her, 

She  loveth  it  as  well, 
And  of  their  love  perchance  this  grace 
Was  born  into  her  wondrous  face. 
I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  be. 
For  both,  methinks,  can  scarce  be  true, 
Still,  as  she  earthly  grew  to  me, 
She  grew  more  heavenly  too  ; 

She  seems  one  born  in  Heaven 
With  earthly  feelings, 

For,  while  unto  her  soul  are  given 
More  pure  revealings 

Of  holiest  love  and  truth, 
Yet  is  the  mildness  of  her  eyes 
Made  up  of  quickest  sympathies, 

Of  kindliness  and  ruth  ; 
So,  though  some  shade  of  awe  doth  stir 
Our  souls  for  one  so  far  above  us, 
We  feel  secure  that  she  will  love  us, 
And  cannot  keep  from  loving  her. 
She  is  a  poem,  which  to  me 
In  speech  and  look  is  written  bright. 
And  to  her  life's  rich  harmony 
Doth  ever  sing  itself  aright ; 


lANTHE.  l8l 

Dear,  glorious  creature  ! 
With  eyes  so  dewy  bright, 

And  tenderest  feeling 

Itself  revealing 
In  every  look  and  feature, 
Welcome  as  a  homestead  light 
To  one  long-wandering  in  a  clouded  night ; 
O,  lovelier  for  her  woman's  weakness, 

Which  yet  is  strongly  mailed 
In  armor  of  courageous  meekness 

And  faith  that  never  failed  ! 

VI. 

Early  and  late,  at  her  soul's  gate, 
Sits  Chastity  in  warderwise, 
No  thoughts  unchallenged,  small  or  great, 
Go  thence  into  her  eyes ; 
Nor  may  a  low,  unworthy  thought 
Beyond  that  virgin  warder  win. 
Nor  one,  whose  password  is  not  "  ought," 
May  go  without  or  enter  in. 
I  call  her,  seeing  those  pure  eyes, 
The  Eve  of  a  new  Paradise, 
Which  she  by  gentle  word  and  deed, 
And  look  no  less,  doth  still  create 
About  her,  for  her  great  thoughts  breed 
A  calm  that  lifts  us  from  our  fallen  state. 
And  makes  us  while  with  her  both  good  and 
great  — 


182  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Nor  is  their  memory  wanting  in  our  need  : 
With  stronger  loving,  every  hour, 
Turneth  my  heart  to  this  frail  flower, 
Which,  thoughtless  of  the  world,  hath  grown 
To  beauty  and  meek  gentleness, 
Here  in  a  fair  world  of  its  own  — 
By  woman's  instinct  trained  alone  — 
A  lily  fair  which  God  did  bless. 
And  which  from  Nature's  heart  did  draw 
Love,  wisdom,  peace,  and  Heaven's  perfect  law. 


LOVE'S    ALTAR. 
I. 

I  BUILT  an  altar  in  my  soul, 

I  builded  it  to  one  alone  ; 

And  ever  silently  I  stole. 

In  happy  days  of  long-agone, 

To  make  rich  offerings  to  that  one. 

II. 

'T  was  garlanded  with  purest  thought, 
And  crowned  with  fancy's  flowers  bright, 
With  choicest  gems  't  was  all  inwrou£:ht 
Of  truth  and  feeling  ;  in  my  sight 
It  seemed  a  spot  of  cloudless  light. 


LOVE'S  ALTAR.  1 83 

III. 

Yet  when  I  made  my  offering  there, 
Like  Cain's,  the  incense  would  not  rise; 
Back  on  my  heart  down-sank  the  prayer, 
And  altar-stone  and  sacrifice 
Grew  hateful  in  my  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

IV. 

O'er-grown  with  age's  mosses  green, 
The  little  altar  firmly  stands  ; 
It  is  not,  as  it  once  hath  been, 
A  selfish  shrine  ;  —  these  time-taught  hands 
Bring  incense  now  from  many  lands. 

V. 

Knowledge  doth  only  widen  love  ; 
The  stream,  that  lone  and  narrow  rose. 
Doth,  deepening  ever,  onward  move, 
And  with  an  even  current  flows 
Calmer  and  calmer  to  the  close. 

VI. 

The  love,  that  in  those  early  days 
Girt  round  my  spirit  like  a  wall. 
Hath  faded  like  a  morning  haze. 
And  flames,  unpent  by  self's  mean  thrall. 
Rise  clearly  to  the  perfect  all. 


1 84  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

MY  LOVE. 

I. 
Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear  ; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 

II. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know  ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

III. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair, 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

IV. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses. 
Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise. 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease. 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace. 
Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 


MY  LOVE.  185 

V. 
She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

VI. 

Blessing  she  is  :  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

VII. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize  ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

VIII. 

On  Nature  she  doth  muse  and  brood 
With  such  a  still  and  love-clear  eye  — 
She  is  so  gentle  and  so  good  — 
The  very  flowers  in  the  wood 
Do  bless  her  with  their  sympathy. 


LOWELL'S  POEMS, 
IX. 

She  is  a  woman  :  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

X. 

And  youth  in  her  a  home  will  find, 
Where  he  may  dwell  eternally  ; 
Her  soul  is  not  of  that  weak  kind 
Which  better  love  the  life  behind 
Than  that  which  is,  or  is  to  be. 

XI. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill. 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

xir. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene. 
Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie  ; 
It  flows  around  them  and  between, 
And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green. 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 


WITH  A   PRESSED  FLOWER.  1 87 

WITH  A  PRESSED  FLOWER. 

This  little  flower  from  afar 
Hath  come  from  other  lands  to  thine  ; 
For,  once,  its  white  and  drooping  star 
Could  see  its  shadow  in  the  Rhine. 

Perchance  some  fair-haired  German  maid 
Hath  plucked  one  from  the  self-same  stalk, 
And  numbered  over,  half  afraid, 
Its  petals  in  her  evening  walk. 

"  He  loves  me,  loves  me  not,"  she  cries  ; 
"  He  loves  me  more  than  earth  or  Heaven," 
And  then  glad  tears  have  filled  her  eyes 
To  find  the  number  was  uneven. 

So,  Love,  my  heart  doth  wander  forth 
To  farthest  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  search  the  fairest  spots  of  earth 
To  find  sweet  flowers  of  thought  for  thee. 

A  type  this  tiny  blossom  is 
Of  what  my  heart  doth  every  day. 
Seeking  for  pleasant  fantasies 
To  brood  upon  when  thou  'rt  away. 

And  thou  must  count  its  petals  well, 
Because  it  is  a  gift  from  me  ; 
And  the  last  one  of  all  shall  tell 
Somethino:  F  ve  often  told  to  thee. 


1 88  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  here  at  home,  where  we  were  born, 
Thou  wilt  find  flowers  just  as  true, 
Down  bending  every  summer  morn 
With  freshness  of  New  England  dew. 

For  Nature,  ever  right  in  love, 
Hath  given  them  the  same  sweet  tongue, 
Whether  with  German  skies  above, 
Or  here  our  granite  rocks  among. 


IMPARTIALITY. 

I. 

I  CANNOT  say  a  scene  is  fair 
Because  it  is  beloved  of  thee. 
But  I  shall  love  to  linger  there. 
For  sake  of  thy  dear  memory  ; 
I  would  not  be  so  coldly  just 
As  to  love  only  what  I  must. 

II. 

I  cannot  say  a  thought  is  good 
Because  thou  foundest  joy  in  it  ; 
Each  soul  must  choose  its  proper  food 
Which  Nature  hath  decreed  most  fit ; 
But  I  shall  ever  deem  it  so 
Because  it  made  thy  heart  o'erflow. 


SELLER  OP  HON.  1 89 

III. 

I  love  thee  for  that  thou  art  fair ; 
And  that  thy  spirit  joys  in  aught 
Createth  a  new  beauty  there, 
With  thine  own  dearest  image  fraught  ; 
And  love,  for  others'  sake  that  springs. 
Gives  half  their  charm  to  lovely  things. 


BELLEROPHON. 

DEDICATED    TO    MY    FRIEND,    JOHN    F.    HEATH. 
I. 

I  FEEL  the  bandages  unroll 

That  bound  my  inward  seeing  ; 
Freed  are  the  bright  wings  of  my  soul. 

Types  of  my  god-like  being  ; 
High  thoughts  are  swelling  in  my  heart 

And  rushing  through  my  brain  • 
May  I  never  more  lose  part 

In  my  soul's  realm  again  ! 
All  things  fair,  where'er  they  be, 
In  earth  or  air,  in  sky  or  sea, 
I  have  loved  them  all,  and  taken 
All  within  my  throbbing  breast  ; 
No  more  my  spirit  can  be  shaken 
From  its  calm  and  kingly  rest  ! 
Love  hath  shed  its  light  around  me, 


I90  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Love  hath  pierced  the  shades  that  bound  me  ; 
Mine  eyes  are  opened,  I  can  see 
The  universe's  mystery, 

The  mighty  heart  and  core 

Of  After  and  Before 
I  see,  and  I  am  weak  no  more  ! 

II. 

Upward  !  upward  evermore. 
To  Heaven's  open  gate  I  soar  ! 
Little  thoughts  are  far  behind  me, 
Which,  when  custom  weaves  together. 
All  the  nobler  man  can  tether  — 
Cobwebs  now  no  more  can  bind  me  ! 
Now  fold  thy  wings  a  little  while, 

My  tranced  soul,  and  lie 
At  rest  on  this  Calypso-isle 

That  floats  in  mellow  sky, 
A  thousand  isles  with  gentle  motion 
Rock  upon  the  sunset  ocean  ; 
A  thousand  isles  of  thousand  hues. 
How  bright  !  how  beautiful !  how  rare! 
Into  my  spirit  they  infuse 
A  purer,  a  diviner  air  ; 
The  earth  is  growing  dimmer. 
And  now  the  last  faint  glimmer 

Hath  faded  from  the  hill ; 
But  in  my  higher  atmosphere 


BELLEROPHON.  1 9 1 

The  sun-light  streameth  red  and  clear, 

Fringing  the  islets  still ;  — 
Love  lifts  us  to  the  sun-light, 
Though  the  whole  world  would  be  dark  ; 
Love,  wide  Love,  is  the  one  light, 
All  else  is  but  a  fading  spark ; 
Love  is  the  nectar  which  doth  fill 
Our  soul's  cup  even  to  overflowing, 
And,  warming  heart,  and  thought,  and  will. 
Doth  lie  within  us  mildly  glowing, 
From  its  own  centre  raying  out 
Beauty  and  Truth  on  all  without. 

III. 
Each  on  his  golden  throne, 
Full  royally,  alone, 
I  see  the  stars  above  me, 
With  sceptre  and  with  diadem  ; 
Mildly  they  look  down  and  love  me, 
For  I  have  ever  yet  loved  them  ; 
I  see  their  ever-sleepless  eyes 
Watching  the  growth  of  destinies  ; 

Calm,  sedate, 

The  eyes  of  Fate, 
They  wink  not,  nor  do  roll, 
But  search  the  depths  of  soul  — 
And  in  those  mighty  depths  they  see 
The  germs  of  all  Futurity, 


192  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Waiting  but  the  fitting  time 

To  burst  and  ripen  into  prime, 

As  in  the  womb  of  mother  Earth 

The  seeds  of  plants  and  forests  lie 

Age  upon  age  and  never  die  — 

So  in  the  souls  of  all  men  wait, 

Undyingly  the  seeds  of  Fate  ; 

Chance  breaks  the  clod  and  forth  they  spring. 

Filling  blind  men  with  wondering. 

Eternal  stars  !  with  holy  awe, 

As  if  a  present  God  I  saw, 

I  look  into  those  mighty  eyes 

And  see  great  destinies  arise, 

As  in  those  of  mortal  men 

Feelings  glow  and  fade  again  ! 

All  things  below,  all  things  above, 

Are  open  to  the  eyes  of  Love. 


IV. 

Of  Knowledge  Love  is  master-key, 
Knowledge  of  Beauty  ;  passing  dear 
Is  each  to  each,  and  mutually 
Each  one  doth  make  the  other  clear  ; 
Beauty  is  Love,  and  what  we  love 
Straightway  is  beautiful, 
S®  is  the  circle  round  and  full. 
And  so  dear  Love  doth  live  and  move 


BELLEROPHON.  1 93 

And  have  his  being, 
Finding  his  proper  food 

By  sure  inseeing, 
In  all  things  pure  and  good, 
Which  he  at  will  doth  cull, 
Like  a  joyous  butterfly 
Hiving  in  the  sunny  bowers 
Of  the  soul's  fairest  flowers. 
Or,  between  the  earth  and  sky. 
Wandering  at  liberty 
For  happy,  happy  hours  ! 

V. 

The  thoughts  of  Love  are  Poesy, 
As  this  fair  earth  and  all  we  see 
Are  the  thoughts  of  Deity  — 
And  Love  is  ours  by  our  birthright  ! 
He  hath  cleared  mine  inward  sight ; 
Glorious  shapes  with  glorious  eyes 
Round  about  my  spirit  glance, 
Shedding  a  mild  and  golden  light 
On  the  shadowy  face  of  Night ; 
To  unearthly  melodies. 
Hand  in  hand,  they  weave  their  dance, 
While  a  deep,  ambrosial  lustre 

From  their  rounded  limbs  doth  shine, 
Through  many  a  rich  and  golden  cluster 

Of  streaming  hair  divine. 


194  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

In  our  gross  and  earthly  hours 

We  cannot  see  the  Love-given  powers 

Which  ever  round  the  soul  await 

To  do  its  sovereign  will, 
When,  in  its  moments  calm  and  still, 
It  re-assumes  its  royal  state, 
Nor  longer  sits  with  eyes  downcast, 
A  beggar,  dreaming  of  the  past. 
At  its  own  palace-gate. 

VI. 

I  too  am  a  Maker  and  a  Poet ; 
Through  my  whole  soul  I  feel  it  and  know  it 
My  veins  are  fired  with  ecstasy ! 

All-mother  Earth 

Did  ne'er  give  birth 
To  one  who  shall  be  matched  with  me  ; 
The  lustre  of  my  coronal 
Shall  cast  a  dimness  over  all.  — 
Alas  !  alas  !  what  have  I  spoken  } 
My  strong,  my  eagle  wings  are  broken, 
And  back  again  to  earth  I  fall  ! 


SOMETHING  NATURAL.  195 

SOMETHING    NATURAL. 
I. 
When  first  I  saw  thy  soul-deep  eyes, 
My  heart  yearned  to  thee  instantly, 
Strange  longing  in  my  soul  did  rise  ; 
I  cannot  tell  the  reason  why, 
But  I  must  love  thee  till  I  die. 

II. 

The  sight  of  thee  hath  well-nigh  grown 
As  needful  to  me  as  the  light  ; 
I  am  unrestful  when  alone, 
And  my  heart  doth  not  beat  aright 
Except  it  dwell  within  thy  sight. 

III. 

And  yet  —  and  yet  —  O  selfish  love  ! 
I  am  not  happy  even  with  thee; 
I  see  thee  in  thy  brightness  move. 
And  cannot  well  contented  be. 
Save  thou  should'st  shine  alone  for  me. 

IV. 

We  should  love  beauty  even  as  flowers  — 
For  all,  't  is  said,  they  bud  and  blow, 
They  are  the  world's  as  well  as  ours — - 
But  thou  —  alas  !  God  made  thee  grow 
So  fair,  I  cannot  love  thee  so  ! 


196  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


THE   SIRENS. 


The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 

The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy  ; 
Thou  seckest  quiet,  thou  art  weary, 
Wandering  thou  knowest  not  whither  ;  — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy. 
Come  and  rest  thee  !  O  come  hither. 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours. 

Where  evermore 
The  low  west-wind  creeps  panting  up  the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers  ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts. 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee, 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow  — 
To  the  shore 
Follow  !  O  follow  ! 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore ! 
For  evermore ! 

Look  how  the  gray,  old  Ocean 
From  the  depths  of  his  heart  rejoices. 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion. 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices  ; 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody  ; 


THE   SIRENS.  197 

And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea — 
And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere  — 
"  Here  mayest  thou  harbor  peacefully, 
Here  mayest  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar; 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  for  evermore  ! 

For  evermore  ! 
And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded  hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep. 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still, 
"  Evermore  !  " 

Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear, 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea ; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seals  only, 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  gray, 


198  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely  ? 
Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 
Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 
A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 
A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shalt  lie 
Even  in  death  unquietly  ? 
Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark, 

Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  side-long  shark 
Upturned  patiently, 

Ever  waiting  there  for  thee  : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 

Which  ever  keep  their  dreamless  sleep 

Far  down  within  the  gloomy  deep. 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms. 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spra}'. 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play ; 

Look  down  !     Look  down  ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 

Beckoning  for  thee ! 
Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark 

Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea  ! 
Look  down  !     Look  down  ! 
Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 


THE   SIRENS.  1 99 

Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear. 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 

Into  the  ocean's  blue  : 
Listen  !     O  listen  ! 
Here  is  a  gush  o-f  many  streams, 

A  song  of  many  birds. 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 
Lulled  to  a  numbered  flow  of  words  — 

Listen  !     O  listen  ! 
Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 
Underneath  full-blossomed  trees, 
At  once  with  glowing  fruit  and  flower  crowned  ;  — 
The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand, 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate,  as  it  touches  the  land  ; 
All  around,  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand. 
And  there,  where  the  smooth  wet  pebbles  be, 
The  waters  gurgle  longingly. 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore  — 

For  evermore. 


200  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 
Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee ! 
Nantasket,  July,  1840. 


A   FEELING. 

The  flowers  and  the  grass  to  me 

Are  eloquent  reproachfully ; 

For  would  they  wave  so  pleasantly 

Or  look  so  fresh  and  fair. 

If  a  man,  cunning,  hollow,  mean, 

Or  one  in  anywise  unclean. 

Were  looking  on  them  there? 

No  ;  he  hath  grown  so  foolish-wise 
He  cannot  see  with  childhood's  eyes  ; 
He  hath  forgot  that  purity 
And  lowliness  which  are  the  key 
Of  Nature's  mysteries  ; 
No  ;  he  hath  wandered  off  so  long 
From  his  own  place  of  birth, 
That  he  hath  lost  his  mother-tongue, 
And,  like  one  come  from  far-off  lands, 
Forgetting  and  forgot,  he  stands 
Beside  his  mother's  hearth. 


THE   BEGGAR.  20I 


THE  BEGGAR. 


A  Beggar  through  the  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by  ;  — - 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity  ! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me  — 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro. 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unmoved  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might. 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  Wight  — 
That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance  — 
Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 

Some  of  thy  mournfulness  serene. 
Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 
Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine  — 
That  grief  may  fall  like  snowflakes  light, 
And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 


202  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright  — 

0  sweetly-mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me  my  cheerful  brook  — 
That  I  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fate  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I  've  been  in  the  wood  ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good-by,  kind  friends,  every  one, 

1  've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun  ; 

Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start. 
And  so  my  journey  's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me  !  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet  ! 
Some  of  thy  modesty. 
That  flowers  here  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou'dst  been, 
O  give,  to  strengthen  me. 


SERENADE.  203 


SERENADE. 


From  the  close-shut  windows  gleams  no  spar 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  night  is  dark, 
The  poplars  shiver,  the  pine-trees  moan, 
My  hair  by  the  autumn  breeze  is  blown. 
Under  thy  window  I  sing  alone. 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 

The  darkness  is  pressing  coldly  around. 
The  windows  shake  with  a  lonely  sound. 
The  stars  are  hid  and  the  night  is  drear, 
The  heart  of  silence  throbs  in  thine  ear, 
In  thy  chamber  thou  sittest  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 

The  world  is  happy,  the  world  is  wide, 
Kind  hearts  are  beating  on  every  side  ; 
Ah,  why  should  we  lie  so  curled 
Alone  in  the  shell  of  this  great  world  ? 
Wliy  should  we  any  more  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 

O  !  't  is  a  bitter  and  dreary  word. 
The  saddest  by  man's  ear  ever  heard  ; 
We  each  are  young,  we  each  have  a  heart. 
Why  stand  we  ever  coldly  apart  ? 
Must  we  forever,  then,  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 


;04  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

IRENE. 

Hers  is  a  spirit  deep  and  crystal-clear ; 
Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies  ; 
Far  down  into  her  large  and  patient  eyes 
I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite. 
As,  in  the  mid-watch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  Love's  holy  light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh  free  ; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth  she 
An  Eden  where  the  snake  did  never  enter ; 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre  ; 
So  that  no  influence  of  earth  can  stir 
Her  steadfast  courage,  or  can  take  away 
The  holy  peacefulness,  which,  night  and  day, 
Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

Most  gentle  is  she  ;  her  large  charity 
(An  all  unwitting,  childlike  gift  in  her) 
Not  freer  is  to  give  than  meek  to  bear  ; 
And,  though  herself  not  unacquaint  with  care. 
Hath  in  her  heart  wide  room  for  all  that  be  — 


IRENE.  205 

Her  heart  that  hath  no  secrets  of  its  own, 

But  open  is  as  eglantine  full-blown, 

Cloudless  forever  is  her  brow  serene, 

Speaking  calm  hope  and  trust  within  her,  whence 

Wellcth  a  noiseless  spring  of  patience 

That  keepeth  all  her  life  so  fresh,  so  green 

And  full  of  holiness,  that  every  look. 

The  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul  revealing, 

Unto  me  bringeth  blessing,  and  a  feeling 

As  when  I  read  in  God's  own  holy  book. 

A  graciousness  in  giving  that  doth  make 
The  small'st  gift  greatest,  and  a  sense  most  meek 
Of  worthiness,  that  doth  not  fear  to  take 
From  others,  but  which  always  fears  to  speak 
Its  thanks  in  utterance,  for  the  giver's  sake  ;  — 
The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Which  rests  instinctively  with  Heaven's  law 
With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  depart 
From  its  own  steadfastness  ;  —  a  holy  awe 
For  holy  things,  not  those  which  men  call  holy. 
But  such  as  are  revealed  to  the  eyes 
Of  a  true  woman's  soul  bent  down  and  lowly 
Before  the  face  of  daily  mysteries  ;  — 
A  love  that  blossoms  soon,  but  ripens  slowly 
To  the  full  goldenness  of  fruitful  prime, 
Enduring  with  a  firmness  that  defies 
All  shallow  tricks  of  circumstance  and  time, 


2o6  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

By  a  sure  insight  knowing  where  to  cling, 
And  where  it  clingeth  never  withering  — 
These  are  Irene's  dowry  —  which  no  fate 
Can  shake  from  their  serene,  deep-builded  state. 

In-seeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 
No  less  than  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 
With  fear  of  blame,  and  yet  which  ever  hasteneth 
To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the  wound, 
If  they   be  wounds   which    such    sweet    teaching 

makes. 
Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes  ; 
No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with  side-long  eye. 
Hath  she  ;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 
That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side ; 
For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie, 
Right  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit  came 
Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten  whence 
It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence. 
But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 
Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she  may  not 
Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthly  spot. 

Yet  sets  she  not  her  soul  so  steadily 
Above,  that  she  forgets  her  ties  to  earth. 
But  her  whole  thought  would  almost  seem  to  be 
How  to  make  glad  one  lowly  human  hearth  ; 
For  with  a  gentle  courage  she  doth  strive 
In  thousrht  and  word  and  feeling  so  to  live 


THE  LOST  CHILD.  207 

As  to  make  earth  next  Heaven  ;  and  her  heart 
Herein  doth  show  its  most  exceeding  worth, 
That,  bearing  in  our  frailty  her  just  part, 
She  hath  not  shrunk  from  evils  of  this  life, 
But  hath  gone  calmly  forth  into  the  strife, 
And  all  its  sins  and  sorrows  hath  withstood 
With  lofty  strength  of  patient  womanhood  : 
For  this  I  love  her  great  soul  more  than  all. 
That,  being  bound,  like  us,  with  earthly  thrall. 
She  walks  so  bright  and  Heaven-wise  therein  — 
Too  wise,  too  meek,  too  womanly  to  sin. 

Exceeding  pleasant  to  mine  eyes  is  she  ; 
Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds  seen 
By  sailors,  tempest-tost  upon  the  sea. 
Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  heavens  nigh, 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been. 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to  me  ;  — 
For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head. 
Earth's  noblest  thing  — -  a  Woman  perfected. 


THE   LOST    CHILD. 
I. 

I  WANDERED  down  the  sunny  glade 
And  ever  mused,  my  love,  of  thee  ; 

My  thoughts,  like  little  children,  played, 
As  gayly  and  as  guilelessly. 


208  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

II. 
If  any  chanced  to  go  astray, 

Moaning  in  fear  of  coming  harms, 
Hope  brought  the  wanderer  back  alway, 

Safe  nestled  in  her  snowy  arms. 

III. 
From  that  soft  nest  the  happy  one 

Looked  up  at  me  and  calmly  smiled  ; 
Its  hair  shone  golden  in  the  sun, 

And  made  it  seem  a  heavenly  child. 

IV. 

Dear  Hope's  blue  eyes  smiled  mildly  down, 
And  blest  it  with  a  love  so  deep, 

That,  like  a  nursling  of  her  own, 
It  clasped  her  neck  and  fell  asleep. 


THE   CHURCH. 
I. 

I  LOVE  the  rites  of  England's  church  ; 

I  love  to  hear  and  see 
The  priest  and  people  reading  slow 

The  solemn  Litany  ; 
I  love  to  hear  the  glorious  swell 

Of  chanted  psalm  and  prayer, 
And  the  deep  organ's  bursting  heart, 

Throb  through  the  shivering  air. 


THE   CHURCH.  209 

II. 

Chants,  that  a  thousand  years  have  heard, 

I  love  to  hear  again, 
For  visions  of  the  olden  time 

Are  wakened  by  the  strain  ; 
With  gorgeous  hues  the  window-glass 

Seems  suddenly  to  glow. 
And  rich  and  red  the  streams  of  light 

Down  through  the  chancel  flow. 

III. 
And  then  I  murmur,  "  Surely  God 

Delighteth  here  to  dwell ; 
This  is  the  temple  of  his  Son 

Whom  he  doth  love  so  well ; " 
But,  when  I  hear  the  creed  which  saith. 

This  church  alone  is  His, 
I  feel  within  my  soul  that  He 

Hath  purer  shrines  than  this. 

IV. 

For  his  is  not  the  builded  church, 

Nor  organ-shaken  dome  ; 
In  every  thing  that  lovely  is 

He  loves  and  hath  his  home ; 
And  most  in  soul  that  loveth  well 

All  things  which  he  hath  made. 
Knowing  no  creed  but  simple  faith 

That  may  not  be  gainsaid. 


2IO  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

V. 

His  church  is  universal  Love, 

And  whoso  dwells  therein 
Shall  need  no  customed  sacrifice 

To  wash  away  his  sin  ; 
And  music  in  its  aisles  shall  swell, 

Of  lives  upright  and  true, 
Sweet  as  dreamed  sounds  of  angel-harps 

Down-quivering  through  the  blue. 

VI. 

They  shall  not  ask  a  litany, 

The  souls  that  worship  there. 
But  every  look  shall  be  a  hymn, 

And  every  word  a  prayer  ; 
Their  service  shall  be  written  bright 

In  calm  and  holy  eyes. 
And  every  day  from  fragrant  hearts 

Fit  incense  shall  arise. 


THE   UNLOVELY. 

The  pretty  things  that  others  wear 
Look  strange  and  out  of  place  on  me, 
I  never  seem  dressed  tastefully. 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 


THE    UNLOVELY.  211 

And,  when  I  would  most  pleasing  seem, 
And  deck  myself  with  joyful  care, 
I  find  it  is  an  idle  dream, 
Because  I  am  not  fair. 

If  I  put  roses  in  my  hair, 
They  bloom  as  if  in  mockery  ; 
Nature  denies  her  sympathy. 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 
Alas  !  I  have  a  warm,  true  heart. 
But  when  I  show  it  people  stare ; 
I  must  forever  dwell  apart. 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

I  am  least  happy  being  where 
The  hearts  of  others  are  most  light, 
And  strive  to  keep  me  out  of  sight, 

Because  I  am  not  fair  ; 
The  glad  ones  often  give  a  glance. 
As  I  am  sitting  lonely  there, 
That  asks  me  why  I  do  not  dance  — 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

And  if  to  smile  on  them  I  dare. 
For  that  my  heart  with  love  runs  o'er, 
They  say  :  "  What  is  she  laughing  for  .''  "  — 

Because  I  am  not  fair  ; 


212  LOWELLS  POEMS, 

Love  scorned  or  misinterpreted  — 
It  is  the  hardest  thing  to  bear ; 
I  often  wish  that  I  were  dead, 
Because  I  am  not  fair. 

In  joy  or  grief  I  must  not  share, 
For  neither  smiles  nor  tears  on  me 
Will  ever  look  becomingly, 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 
Whole  days  I  sit  alone  and  cry, 
And  in  my  grave  I  wish  I  were  — 
Yet  none  will  weep  me  if  I  die, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

IMy  grave  will  be  so  lone  and  bare, 
I  fear  to  think  of  those  dark  hours. 
For  none  will  plant  it  o'er  with  flowers. 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 
They  will  not  in  the  summer  come 
And  speak  kind  words  above  me  there ; 
To  me  the  grave  will  be  no  home, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 


LOVE-SONG. 

Nearer  to  thy  mother-heart. 
Simple  Nature,  press  me, 
Let  me  know  thee  as  thou  art, 
Fill  my  soul  and  bless  me ! 


SONG.  213 

I  have  loved  thee  long  and  well, 
I  have  loved  thee  heartily  ; 
Shall  I  never  with  thee  dwell, 
Never  be  at  one  with  thee  ? 

Inward,  inward  to  thy  heart, 
Kindly  Nature,  take  me, 
Lovely  even  as  thou  art, 
Full  of  loving  make  me  ! 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  dead-cold  forms, 
Knowest  naught  of  littleness, 
Lifeful  Truth  thy  being  warms. 
Majesty  and  earnestness. 

Homeward,  homeward  to  thy  heart. 
Dearest  Nature,  call  me  ; 
Let  no  halfness,  no  mean  part. 
Any  longer  thrall  me  ! 
I  will  be  thy  lover  true, 
I  will  be  a  faithful  soul. 
Then  circle  me,  then  look  me  through, 
Fill  me  with  the  mighty  Whole. 


SONG. 


All  things  are  sad  :  — 
I  go  and  ask  of  Memory, 
That  she  tell  sweet  tales  to  me 

To  make  me  glad  ; 


214  LOWELVS  POEMS. 

And  she  takes  me  by  the  hand, 
Leadeth  to  old  places, 
Showeth  the  old  faces 
In  her  hazy  mirage-land  ; 
O,  her  voice  is  sweet  and  low, 
And  her  eyes  are  fresh  to  mine 

As  the  dew 

Gleaming  through 
The  half-unfolded  Eglantine, 
Long  ago,  long  ago  ! 
But  I  feel  that  I  am  only 
Yet  more  sad,  and  yet  more  lonely ! 

Then  I  turn  to  blue-eyed  Hope, 
And  beg  of  her  that  she  will  ope 
Her  golden  gates  for  me  ; 
She  is  fair  and  full  of  grace, 
But  she  hath  the  form  and  face 
Of  her  mother  Memory  ; 
Clear  as  air  her  glad  voice  ringeth. 
Joyous  are  the  songs  she  singeth, 
Yet  I  hear  them  mournfully  ;  — 
They  are  songs  her  mother  taught  her. 
Crooning  to  her  infant  daughter, 
As  she  lay  upon  her  knee. 
Many  little  ones  she  bore  me, 
Woe  is  me  !  in  by-gone  hours, 
Who  danced  along  and  sang  before  me, 


SONG.  2 1  5 

Scattering  my  way  with  flowers  ; 

One  by  one 

They  are  gone, 
And  their  silent  graves  are  seen, 
Shining  fresh  with  mosses  green. 
Where  the  rising  sunbeams  slope 
O'er  the  dewy  land  of  Hope. 

But,  when  sweet  Memory  faileth. 

And  Hope  looks  strange  and  cold ; 

When  youth  no  more  availeth, 

And  Grief  grows  over  bold  ;  -r- 

When  softest  winds  are  dreary. 

And  summer  sunlight  weary. 

And  sweetest  things  uncheery 
We  know  not  why  :  — 

When  the  crown  of  our  desires 

Weighs  upon  the  brow  and  tires^ 
And  we  would  die. 

Die  for,  ah  !  we  know  not  what, 

Something  we  seem  to  have  forgot. 

Something  we  had,  and  now  have  not ;  — 

When  the  present  is  a  weight 

And  the  future  seems  our  foe. 

And  with  shrinking  eyes  we  wait. 

As  one  who  dreads  a  sudden  blow 

In  the  dark,  he  knows  not  whence;  — 

When  Love  at  last  his  bright  eye  closes, 


2l6  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  the  bloom  upon  his  face, 
That  lends  him  such  a  living  grace^ 
Is  a  shadow  from  the  roses 
Wherewith  we  have  decked  his  bier, 
Because  he  once  was  passing  dear;  — 
When  we  feel  a  leaden  sense 
Of  nothingness  and  impotence, 
Till  we  grow  mad  — 
Then  the  body  saith, 
"  There's  but  one  true  faith ; 
All  things  are  sad  !  " 


A  LOVE-DREAM. 

Pleasant  thoughts  come  wandering, 
When  thou  art  far,  from  thee  to  me ; 
On  their  silver  wings  they  brino- 
A  very  peaceful  ecstasy, 
A  feeling  of  eternal  spring; 
So  that  Winter  half  forgets 
Everything  but  that  thou  art. 
And,  in  his  bewildered  heart, 
Dreameth  of  the  violets, 
Or  those  bluer  flowers  that  ope, 
Flowers  of  steadfast  love  and  hope. 
Watered  by  the  living  wells, 
Of  memories  dear,  and  dearer  prophecies. 


A    LOVE-DREAM.  21  y 

When  young  spring  forever  dwells 
In  the  sunshine  of  thine  eyes. 

I  have  most  holy  dreams  of  thee, 

All  night  I  have  such  dreams  ; 
And,  when  I  awake,  reality 

No  whit  the  darker  seems  ; 
Through  the  twin  gates  of  Hope  and  Memory 
They  pour  in  crystal  streams 
From  out  an  angel's  calmed  eyes, 
Who,  from  twilight  till  sunrise, 
Far  away  in  the  upper  deep, 
Poised  upon  his  shining  wings, 
Over  us  his  watch  doth  keep. 
And,  as  he  watcheth,  ever  sings. 

Through  the  still  night  I  hear  him  sing, 

Down-looking  on  our  sleep  ; 
I  hear  his  clear,  clear  harp-strings  ring, 
And,  as  the  golden  notes  take  wing. 
Gently  downward  hovering. 

For  very  joy  I  weep  ; 
He  singeth  songs  of  holy  Love, 
That  quiver  through  the  depths  afar, 
Where  the  blessed  spirits  are. 
And  lingeringly  from  above 
Shower  till  the  morning  star 
His  silver  shield  hath  buckled  on 
And  sentinels  the  dawn  alone, 


2l8  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Quivering  his  gleamy  spear 
Through  the  dusky  atmosphere. 

Almost,  my  love,  I  fear  the  morn, 
When  that  blessed  voice  shall  cease, 
Lest  it  should  leave  me  quite  forlorn, 
Stript  of  my  snowy  robe  of  peace  ; 
And  yet  the  bright  reality 
Is  fairer  than  all  dreams  can  be. 
For,  through  my  spirit,  all  day  long, 
Ring  echoes  of  that  angel-song 
In  melodious  thoughts  of  thee  ; 
And  well  I  know  it  cannot  die 
Till  eternal  morn  shall  break. 
For,  through  life's  slumber,  thou  and  I 
Will  keep  it  for  each  other's  sake, 
And  it  shall  not  be  silent  when  we  wake. 


FOURTH   OF   JULY   ODE. 


Our  fathers  fought  for  Liberty, 
They  struggled  long  and  well. 
History  of  their  deeds  can  tell 

But  did  they  leave  us  free } 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  ODE.  219 

II. 

Are  we  free  from  vanity, 

Free  from  pride,  and  free  from  self, 
Free  from  love  of  power  and  pelf, 

From  everything  that  's  beggarly  ? 

III. 
Are  we  free  from  stubborn  will, 

From  low  hate  and  malice  small. 

From  opinion's  tyrant  thrall  .'' 
Are  none  of  us  our  own  slaves  still  .'* 

IV. 

Are  we  free  to  speak  our  thought, 

To  be  happy,  and  be  poor. 

Free  to  enter  Heaven's  door. 
To  live  and  labor  as  we  ought  .-• 

V. 

Are  we  then  made  free  at  last 
From  the  fear  of  what  men  say, 
Free  to  reverence  To-day, 

Free  from  the  slavery  of  the  Past } 

VI. 

Our  fathers  fought  for  liberty, 
They  struggled  long  and  well, 
History  of  their  deeds  can  tell  — 

But  ourselves  must  set  us  free. 


220  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 


SPHINX. 


Why  mourn  we  for  the  golden  prime 
When  our  young  souls  were  kingly,  strong,  and 
true  ? 

The  soul  is  greater  than  all  time, 
It  changes  not,  but  yet  is  ever  new. 

II. 

But  that  the  soul  is  noble,  we 
Could  never  know  what  nobleness  had  been  ; 

Be  what  ye  dream !  and  earth  shall  see 
A  greater  greatness  than  she  e'er  hath  seen. 

III. 

The  flower  pines  not  to  be  fair, 
It  never  asketh  to  be  sweet  and  dear, 

But  gives  itself  to  sun  and  air, 
And  so  is  fresh  and  full  from  year  to  year. 

IV. 

Nothing  in  Nature  weeps  its  lot. 
Nothing,  save  man,  abides  in  memory. 

Forgetful  that  the  Past  is  what 
Ourselves  may  choose  the  coming  time  to  be. 


SPHINX.  221 

V. 

All  things  are  circular ;  the  Past 
Was  given  us  to  make  the  Future  great ; 

And  the  void  Future  shall  at  last 
Be  the  strong  rudder  of  an  after  fate. 

VI. 

We  sit  beside  the  Sphinx  of  Life, 
We  gaze  into  its  void,  unanswering  eyes, 

And  spend  ourselves  in  idle  strife 
To  read  the  riddle  of  their  mysteries. 

VII. 

Arise  !  be  earnest  and  be  strong  ! 
The  Sphinx's  eyes  shall  suddenly  grow  clear, 

And  speak  as  plain  to  thee  ere  long, 
As  the  dear  maiden's  who  holds  thee  most  dear. 

VIII. 

The  meaning  of  all  things  in  its  — 
Yea,  in  the  lives  we  give  our  souls  —  doth  lie  ; 

Make,  then,  their  meaning  glorious 
By  such  a  life  as  need  not  fear  to  die ! 

IX. 

There  is  no  heart-beat  in  the  day. 
Which  bears  a  record  of  the  smallest  deed. 

But  holds  within  its  faith  alway 
That  which  in  doubt  we  vainly  strive  to  read. 


222  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

X. 

One  seed  contains  another  seed, 
And  that  a  third,  and  so  for  evermore  ; 

And  promise  of  as  great  a  deed 
Lies  folded  in  the  deed  that  went  before. 

XI. 

So  ask  not  fitting  space  or  time, 
Yet  could  not  dream  of  things  which  could  not  be; 

Each  day  shall  make  the  next  sublime. 
And  Time  be  swallowed  in  Eternity. 

XII. 

God  bless  the  Present !  it  is  all  ; 
It  has  been  Future,  and  it  shall  be  Past ; 

Awake  and  live  !  thy  strength  recall, 
And  in  one  trinity  unite  them  fast. 

XIII. 

Action  and  Life —  lo  !  here  the  key 
Of  all  on  earth  that  seemeth  dark  and  wrong ; 

Win  this  —  and,  with  it,  freely  ye 
May  enter  that  bright  realm  for  which  ye  long. 

XIV. 

Then  all  these  bitter  questionings 
Shall  with  a  full  and  blessed  answer  meet ; 

Past  worlds,  whereof  the  Poet  sings, 
Shall  be  the  earth  beneath  his  snow-white  fleet. 


''GOE,   LITTLE  BOOKE /''  223 

"GOE,    LITTLE   BOOKE  !  " 

Go  LITTLE  book !  the  world  is  wide, 
There  's  room  and  verge  enough  for  thee ; 
For  thou  hast  learned  that  only  pride 
Lacketh  fit  opportunity, 
Which  comes  unbid  to  modesty. 

Go  !  win  thy  way  with  gentleness  : 
I  send  thee  forth,  my  first-born  child, 
Quite,  quite  alone,  to  face  the  stress 
Of  fickle  skies  and  pathways  wild, 
Where  few  can  keep  them  undefiled. 

Thou  camest  from  a  poet's  heart, 
A  warm,  still  home,  and  full  of  rest  ; 
Far  from  the  pleasant  eyes  thou  art 
Of  those  who  know  and  love  thee  best, 
And  by  whose  hearthstones  thou  wert  blest. 

Go  !  knock  thou  softly  at  the  door 
Where  any  gentle  spirits  bin. 
Tell  them  thy  tender  feet  are  sore. 
Wandering  so  far  from  all  thy  kin. 
And  ask  if  thou  may  enter  in. 

Beg  thou  a  cup-full  from  the  spring 
Of  Charity,  in  Christ's  dear  name  ; 
Few  will  deny  so  small  a  thing. 
Nor  ask  unkindly  if  thou  came 
Of  one  whose  life  might  do  thee  shame. 


224  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

We  all  are  prone  to  go  astray, 
Our  hopes  are  bright,  our  lives  are  dim  ; 
But  thou  art  pure,  and  if  they  say, 
"We  know  thy  father,  and  our  whim 
He  pleases  not,"  —  plead  thou  for  him. 

For  many  are  by  whom  all  truth, 
That  speaks  not  in  their  mother-tongue, 
Is  stoned  to  death  with  hands  unruth, 
Or  hath  its  patient  spirit  wrung 
Cold  words  and  colder  looks  among. 

Yet  fear  not !  for  skies  are  fair 
To  all  whose  souls  are  fair  within  ; 
Thou  wilt  find  shelter  everywhere 
With  those  to  whom  a  different  skin 
Is  not  a  damning  proof  of  sin. 

But,  if  all  others  are  unkind, 
There  's  one  heart  whither  thou  canst  fly 
For  shelter  from  the  biting  wind  ; 
And,  in  that  home  of  purity, 
It  were  no  bitter  thing  to  die. 


A   FABLE   FOR   CRITICS. 


225 


Reader  !    7L'aIk  up  at  once  {it  will  soon  be  too  late)  and 
bay  at  a  perfectly  ruinous  rate 


FABLE  FOR  CRITICS; 

OR,    BETTER, 

(/  like,  as  a  thing  that  the  reader's  first  fancy  may  strike, 
an  oldfashioned  title-page, 
such  as  presents  a  tabular  view  of  the  volume's  contents. ') 


A  GLANCE 

AT   A    FEW   OF   OUR  LITERARY  PROGENIES 
{Jfrs.  Malaprop's  'word) 

FROM 

THE  TUB  OF  DIOGENES; 
A   VOCAL   AND    MUSICAL    MEDLEY. 

THAT    IS, 

A  SERIES   OF   JOKES 

who  accompanies  himself  'with  a  rub-a-dub-dub,  full  of  spirit  and 
grace,  on  the  top  of  the  tub. 


SET   FORTH    IN 

October,   the  21st  day,   in  the  year  '48 
G.    P.    PUTNAM,    BROADWAY. 


It  being  the  commonest  mode   of   procedure,   I 
premise  a  few  candid  remarks 

To  THE  Reader : 

This  trifle,  begun  to  please  only  myself  and  my 
own  private  fancy,  was  laid  on  the  shelf.  But 
some  friends,  who  had  seen  it,  induced  me,  by  dint 
of  saying  they  liked  it,  to  put  it  in  print.  That 
is,  having  come  to  that  very  conclusion,  I  con- 
sulted them  when  it  could  make  no  confusion. 
For,  (though  in  the  gentlest  of  ways,)  they  had 
hinted  it  was  scarce  worth  the  while,  I  should 
doubtless  have  printed  it. 

I  began  it,  intending  a  Fable,  a  frail,  slender 
thing,  rhyme-ywinged,  with  a  sting  in  its  tail. 
But,  by  addings  and  alterings  not  previously 
planned,  —  digressions  chance-hatched,  like  birds' 
eggs  in  the  sand,  —  and  dawdlings  to  suit  every 
whimsy's  demand,  (always  freeing  the  bird  which 
I  held  in  my  hand,  for  the  two  perched,  perhaps 
out  of  reach,  in  the  tree,)  —  it  grew  by  degrees  to 
the  size  which  you  see.  I  was  like  the  old 
woman  that  carried  the  calf,  and  my  neighbors, 
like  hers,  no  doubt,  wonder  and  laugh,  and  when, 
my  strained  arms  with  their  grown  burthen  full, 
I  call  it  my  Fable,  they  call  it  a  bull. 

229 


230  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Having  scrawled  at  full  gallop  (as  far  as  that 
goes)  in  a  style  that  is  neither  good  verse  nor  bad 
prose,  and  being  a  person  whom  nobody  knows, 
some  people  will  say  I  am  rather  more  free  with 
my  readers  than  it  is  becoming  to  be,  that  I  seem 
to  expect  them  to  wait  on  my  leisure  in  following 
wherever  I  wander  at  pleasure,  that,  in  short,  I 
take  more  than  a  young  author's  lawful  ease,  and 
laugh  in  a  queer  way  so  like  ^lephistopheles,  that 
the  public  will  doubt,  as  they  grope  through  my 
rhythm,  if  in  truth  I  am  making  fun  at  them  or 
wWi  them. 

So  the  excellent  Public  is  hereby  assured  that 
the  sale  of  my  book  is  already  secured.  For  there 
is  not  a  poet  throughout  the  whole  land,  but  will 
purchase  a  copy  or  two  out  of  hand,  in  the  fond 
expectation  of  being  amused  in  it,  by  seeing  his 
betters  cut-up  and  abused  in  it.  Now,  I  find,  by 
a  pretty  exact  calculation,  there  are  something 
like  ten  thousand  bards  in  the  nation,  of  that 
special  variety  whom  the  Review  and  Magazine 
critics  call  lofty  and  true,  and  about  thirty  thou- 
sand {tJiis  tribe  is  increasing)  of  the  kinds  who 
are  termed  /////  of  proviise  and  pleasing.  The 
Public  will  see  by  a  glance  at  this  schedule,  that 
they  cannot  expect  me  to  be  over-sedulous  about 
courting  them,  since  it  seems  I  have  got  enough 
fuel  made  sure  of  for  boiling  my  pot. 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    ClUTICS.  23 1 

As  for  such  of  our  poets  as  find  not  their  names 
mentioned  once  in  my  pages,  with  praises  or 
blames,  let  them  send  in  their  cards,  without 
further  delay,  to  my  friend  G.  P.  Putnam, 
Esquire,  in  Broadway,  where  a  list  will  be  kept 
with  the  strictest  regard  to  the  day  and  the  hour 
of  receiving  the  card.  Then,  taking  them  up  as  I 
chance  to  have  time,  (that  is,  if  their  names  can 
be  twisted  in  rhyme,)  I  will  honestly  give  each  his 
proper  position,  at  the  rate  of  one  author  to 
each  NEW  edition.  Thus  a  PREMIUM  is  offered 
sufficiently  high  (as  the  magazines  say  when  they 
tell  their  best  lie)  to  induce  bards  to  club  their 
resources  and  buy  the  balance  of  every  edition, 
until  they  have  all  of  them  fairly  been  run  through 
the  mill. 

One  word  to  such  readers  (judicious  and  wise) 
as  read  books  with  something  behind  the  mere 
eyes,  of  whom  in  the  country,  perhaps,  there  are 
two,  including  myself,  gentle  reader,  and  you. 
All  the  characters  sketched  in  this  slight  jcii, 
d' esprit,  though,  it  may  be,  they  seem,  here  and 
there,  rather  free,  and  drawn  from  a  Mephistophe- 
lian  stand-point,  are  vieant  to  be  faithful,  and  that 
is  the  grand  point,  and  none  but  an  owl  would 
feel  sore  at  a  rub  from  a  jester  who  tells  you, 
without  any  subterfuge,  that  he  sits  in  Diogenes' 
tub. 


A   FABLE   FOR   THE   CRITICS. 


Phcebus,  sitting  one  day  in  a  laurel-tree's  shade, 
Was  reminded  of  Daphne,  of  whom  it  was  made. 
For  the  god  being  one  day  too  warm  in  his  wooing. 
She  took  to  the  tree  to  escape  his  pursuing ; 
Be  the  cause  what  it  might,  from  his  offers  she 

shrunk, 
And,  Ginevra-like,  shut  herself  up  in  a  trunk ; 
And,   though    't  was    a   step    into   which    he    had 

driven  her, 
He  somehow  or  other  had  never  forgiven  her ; 
Her  memory  he  nursed  as  a  kind  of  a  tonic. 
Something  bitter  to    chew  when  he  'd  play  the 

Byron  ic, 
And  I  can't  count  the  obstinate  nymphs  that  he 

brought  over. 
By  a  strange  kind  of  smile  he  put  on  when   he 

thought  of  her. 
"  My  case  is  like  Dido's,"  he  sometimes  remark'd, 
"  When  I  last  saw  my  love,  she  was    fairly  em- 

bark'd; 

233 


234  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Let  hunters  from    me  take  this   saw  when  they 

need  it, 
—  You  're   not   always   sure  of    your   game  when 

you  've  tree'd  it. 
Just  conceive  such  a  change  taking  place  in   one's 

mistress  ! 
What  romance  would  be  left  ?  —  who  can  flatter  or 

kiss  trees  ? 
And  for  mercy's  sake,  how  could  one  keep  up  a 

dialogue 
With  a  dull  wooden  thing  that  will  live  and  will 

die  a  log,  — 
Not  to  say  that  the  thought  would  forever  intrude 
That  you  've  less  chance  to  win  her  the  more  she 

is  wood  ? 
Ah  !    it  went  to  my  heart,  and  the  memory  still 

grieves. 
To  see  those  loved  graces  all  taking  their  leaves  ; 
Those  charms  beyond  speech,  so  enchanting  but 

now. 
As  they  left  me  forever,  each  making  its  bough  ! 
If  her  tongue  had  a  tang  sometimes  more   than 

was  right. 
Her  new  bark  is  worse  than  ten  times  her  old  bite." 

Now,   Daphne,  —  before  she  was  happily  treei- 
fied,  — 
Over  all  other  flowers  the  lily  had  deified, 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE    CRITICS.  235 

And  when  she  expected  the  god  on  a  visit, 
('T  was  before  he   had    made    his    intentions   ex- 
plicit,) 
Some  buds  she  arranged  with  a  vast  deal  of  care, 
To  look  as  if  artlessly  twined  in  her  hair, 
Where  they  seemed,  as  he  said,  when  he  paid  his 

addresses. 
Like  the  day  breaking  through  the  long  night  of 

her  tresses  ; 
So,  whenever  he  wished  to  be  quite  irresistible, 
Like  a  man  with  eight  trumps  in  his  hand  at  a 

whist-table, 
(I  feared  me  at  first  that  the  rhyme  was  untwist- 

able. 
Though  I   might   have   lugged  in  an  allusion   to 

Cristabel,)  — 
He  would  take  up  a  lily,  and  gloomily  look  in  it. 
As  I  shall  at  the ,  when  they  cut  up  my  book 

in  it. 

Well,  here,  after  all  the  bad  rhyme  I  've  been 
spinning, 
I  've  got  back  at  last  to  my  story's  beginning : 
Sitting  there,  as  I  say,  in  the  shade  of  his  mis- 
tress. 
As  dull  as  a  volume  of  old  Chester  mysteries, 
Or  as   those    puzzling    specimens,   which,   in   old 
histories, 


236  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

We  read  of  his  verses  —  the  Oracles,  namely, — 

(I  wonder  the  Greeks  should  have  swallowed  them 
tamely, 

For  one  might  bet  safely  whatever  he  has  to 
risk. 

They  were  laid  at  his  door  by  some  ancient  Miss 
Asterisk, 

And  so  dull  that  the  men  who  retailed  them  out- 
doors 

Got  the  ill  name  of  "augurs,"  because  they  were 
bores,)  — 

First,  he  mused  what  the  animal  substance  or 
herb  is 

Would  induce  a  moustache,  for  you  know  he  's 
hnberbis  ; 

Then  he  shuddered  to  think  how  his  youthful 
position 

Was  assailed  by  the  age  of  his  son  the  physician  ; 

At  some  poems  he  glanced,  had  been  sent  to  him 
lately, 

And  the  metre  and  sentiment  puzzled  him 
greatly ; 

"  Mehercle  !  I  'd  make  such  proceedings  felo- 
nious, — 

Have  they  all  of  them  slept  in  the  cave  of  Tro- 
phonius  ? 

Look  well  to  your  seat,  't  is  like  taking  an  airing 

On  a  corduroy  road,  and  that  out  of  repairing ; 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE  CR/T/CS.  237 

It  leads  one,  't  is  true,  through  the  primitive 
forest. 

Grand  natural  features — -but,  then,  one  has  no 
rest ; 

You  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  ravishing  dis- 
tance, 

When  a  jolt  puts  the  whole  of  it  out  of  exist- 
ence, — 

Why  not  use  their  ears,  if  they  happen  to  have 
any  ? " 

—  Here  the  laurel-leaves  murmured  the  name  of 
poor  Daphne. 

"  O,  weep  with  me.  Daphne,"  he  sighed,  "for 

you  know  it  's 
A  terrible  thing  to  be  pestered  with  poets  !  " 
But,    alas,   she  is  dumb,   and   the   proverb   holds 

good. 
She  never  will  cry  till  she  's  out  of  the  wood  ! 
What  would  n't   I  give  if  I   never  had  known  of 

her? 
'T  were  a  kind  of  relief  had  I  something  to  groan 

over ; 
If  I  had  but  some  letters  of  hers,  now,  to   toss 

over, 
I  might  turn  for  the  nonce  a  Byronic  philosopher. 
And  bewitch  all  the  flats  by  bemoaning  the  loss 

of  her. 


2  7,8  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

One  needs  something  tangible  though  to  begin  on — 
A  loom,  as  it  were,  for  the  fancy  to  spin  on  ; 
What  boots  all  your  grist  ?  it  can  never  be  ground 
Till  a  breeze  makes  the   arms  of  the  windmill  go 

round, 
(Or,  if  't  is  a  water-mill,  alter  the  metaphor, 
And  say  it  won't  stir,  save  the  wheel  be  well  wet 

afore. 
Or  lug  in  some  stuff  about  water  "  so  dreamily,"  — 
It  is  not  a  metaphor,  though,  't  is  a  simile;) 
A  lily,  perhaps,  would  set  my  mill  agoing, 
For  just  at  this  season,  I  think,  they  are  blowing. 
Here,  somebody,  fetch  one,  not  very  far  hence 
They  're  in  bloom  by  the  score,  't  is  but  climbing 

a  fence  ; 
There  's  a  poet  hard  by,  who  does  nothing  but  fill 

his 
Whole  garden,  from  one  end  to  t'  other,  with  lilies; 
A  very  good  plan,  were  it  not  for  satiety, 
One  longs  for  a  weed  here  and  there,  for  variety  ; 
Though  a  weed  is  no  more  than  a  flower  in  dis- 
guise, 
Which  is  seen  through  at  once,  if  love  gives  a  man 
eyes. 

Now  there    happened  to  be    among    Phoebus's 
followers, 
A  gentleman,  one  of  the  omnivorous  swallowers 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    CRITICS.  239 

Who  bolt  every  book  that  comes  out  of  the  press, 
Without  the  least  question  of  larger  or  less, 
Whose  stomachs  are  strong  at  the  expense  of  their 

head,  — 
For  reading  new  books  is  like  eating  new  bread, 
One  can  bear  it  at  first,  but  by  gradual  steps  he 
Is  brought  to  death's  door  of  a  mental  dyspepsy. 
On  a  previous  stage  of  existence,  our  Hero 
Had  ridden  outside,  with  the  glass  below  zero  ; 
He  had  been,  't  is  a  fact  you  may  safely  rely  on, 
Of  a  very  old  stock  a  most  eminent  scion,  — 
A  stock  all  fresh  quacks  their  fierce  boluses  ply  on, 
Who  stretch  the   new  boots  Earth  's  unwilling  to 

try  on, 
Whom  humbugs  of  all  shapes  and  sorts  keep  their 

eye  on. 
Whose  hair  's  in  the  mortar  of  every  new  Zion, 
Who,  when  whistles  are  dear,  go  directly  and  buy 

one, 
Who  think  slavery  a  crime  that  we  must  not  say 

fie  on. 
Who  hunt,  if  they  e'er  hunt  at  all,  with  the  lion, 
(Though  they  hunt  lions  also,  whenever  they  spy 

one,) 
Who  contrive  to  make  every  good  fortune  a  wry 

one, 
And  at  last  choose  the  hard  bed  of  honor  to  die 

on, 


240  .     LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Whose  pedigree  traced  to  earth's  earliest  years, 
Is  longer  than  any  thing  else  but  their  ears  ;  — 
In    short,  he  was    sent    into   life  with   the   wrong 

key, 
He  unlocked   the    door,   and    stept    forth  a  poor 

donkey. 
Though  kicked  and  abused  by  his  bipedal  betters, 
Yet  he  filled   no   mean  place   in  the  kingdom  of 

letters  ; 
Far  happier  than  many  a  literary  hack, 
He  bore  only  paper-mill  rags  on  his  back  ; 
(For  it  makes  a  vast   difference  which   side  the 

mill 
One  expends  on  the  paper  his  labor  and  skill ;) 
So,  when  his  soul  waited  a  new  transmigration. 
And  Destiny  balanced  'twixt  this  and  that  station, 
Not  having  much  time  to  expend  upon  bothers, 
Remembering   he   'd  had  some    connection    with 

authors, 
And   considering  his   four   legs   had   grown   para- 
lytic, — 
She  set  him  on  too,  and  he  came  forth  a  critic. 

Through  his  babyhood  no  kind  of  pleasure  he 
took 
In  any  amusement  but  tearing  a  book ; 
For  him  there  was  no  intermediate  stage, 
From  babyhood  up  to  straight-laced  middle  age ; 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  241 

There  were  years  when  he  did  n't  wear  coat-tails 

behind, 
But  a  boy  he  could  never  be  rightly  defined  ; 
Like  the  Irish  Good  Folk,  though  in  length  scarce 

a  span, 
From  the  womb  he  came  gravely,  a  little  old  man  ; 
While  other  boys'  trowsers  demanded  the  toil 
Of  the  motherly  fingers  on  all  kinds  of  soil. 
Red,  yellow,  brown,  black,  clayey,  gravelly,  loamy, 
He  sat  in  a  corner  and  read  Viri  Romae. 
He  never  was  known  to  unbend  or  to  revel  once 
In    base,  marbles,  hockey,  or  kick   up   the   devil 

once  ; 
He  was  just  one  of  those  who  excite  the  benevo- 
lence 
Of  old  prigs  who  sound  the  soul's  depths  with  a 

ledger, 
And  are  on  the  look  out-for  some  young  men  to 

"  edger- 
-cate,"  as  they  call  it,  who  won't  be  too  costly, 
And  who  '11  afterward  take  to  the  ministry  mostly; 
Who  always  wear  spectacles,  always  look  bilious, 
Always   keep   on   good   terms  with    each    viatcr- 

familias 
Throughout  the  whole  parish,  and  manage  to  rear 
Ten  boys  like  themselves,  on  four  hundred  a  year; 
Who,  fulfilling  in  turn  the  same  fearful  conditions. 
Either  preach  through  their  noses,  or  go  upon 

missions. 


242  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

In  this  way  our  hero  got  safely  to  College, 
Where   he    bolted  alike   both   his  commons    and 

knowledge  ; 
A  reading-machine,  always  wound  up  and  going, 
He  mastered  whatever  was  not  worth  the  know- 
ing, 
Appeared  in  a  gown,  and  a  vest  of  black  satin, 
To  spout  such  a  Gothic  oration  in  Latin, 
That  Tully  could  never  have  made  out  a  word  in 

it, 
(Though  himself  was  the  model  the  author  pre- 
ferred in  it,) 
And  grasping  the  parchment  which  gave  him  in 

fee. 
All  the  mystic  and  so-forths  contained  in  A.  B., 
He  was  launched  (life   is   always   compared  to  a 

sea,) 
With  just  enough  learning,  and  skill  for  the  using 

it, 
To  prove  he  'd  a  brain,  by  forever  confusing  it. 
So  worthy  Saint  Benedict,  piously  burning 
With  the  holiest  zeal  against  secular  learning, 
Nesciejisque  scienter,  as  writers  express  it, 
Indoctiisque  sapienter  a  Rofjid  rccessit. 

'T  would  be  endless  to  tell  you  the  things  that 
he  knew. 
All  separate  facts,  undeniably  true. 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE  CRITICS.  243 

But  with  him  or  each  other  they  'd  nothing  to  do ; 
No  power  of  combining,  arranging,  discerning, 
Digested  the  masses  he  learned  into  learning ; 
There  was  one  thing  in  life  he  had  practical  knowl- 
edge for, 
(And  this,  you  will  think,  he  need   scarce   go  to 

college  for,) 
Not  a  deed  would  he  do,  not  a  word  would   he 

utter. 
Till  he  'd  weighed  its  relations  to  plain  bread  and 

butter. 
When  he  left  Alma  Mater,  he  practised  his  wits 
In  compiling  the  journals'  historical  bits,  — 
Of  shops  broken  open,  men  falling  in  fits, 
Great  fortunes   in   England   bequeathed   to    poor 

printers, 
And  cold  spells,  the  coldest  for  many  past  winters, — 
Then,  rising  by  industry,  knack,  and  address, 
Got  notices  up  for  an  unbiassed  press. 
With  a  mind  so  well   poised,  it   seemed   equally 

made  for 
Applause  or  abuse,  just  which  chanced  to  be  paid 

for ; 
From  this  point  his  progress  was  rapid  and  sure, 
To  the  post  of  a  regular  heavy  reviewer. 

And  here  I  must  say,  he  wrote  excellent  articles 
On  the  Hebraic  points,  or  the  force  of  Greek  par- 
ticles. 


244  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

They  filled  up  the  space  nothing  else  was  prepared 

for, 
And  nobody  read  that  which  nobody  cared  for  ; 
If  any  old  book  reached  a  fiftieth  edition, 
He  could  fill  forty  pages  with  safe  erudition  ; 
He  could  gauge  the  old  books  by  the  old  set  of 

rules. 
And  his  very  old  nothings  pleased  very  old  fools  ; 
But  give  him  a  new  book,  fresh  out  of  the  heart, 
And  you  put  him  at  sea  without  compass  or  chart, — 
His  blunders  aspired  to  the  rank  of  an  art  ; 
For  his  lore  was  engraft,  something  foreign  that 

grew  in  him. 
Exhausting  the  sap  of  the  native  and  true  in  him, 
So  that  when  a  man  came  with  a  soul  that  was  new 

in  him, 
Carving  new  forms  of  truth  out  of   Nature's  old 

granite, 
New  and  old  at  their  birth,  like  Le  Verrier's  planet. 
Which,  to  get  a  true  judgment,  themselves  must 

create 
In  the  soul  of  their  critic  the  measure  and  weight, 
Being  rather  themselves  a  fresh  standard  of  grace, 
To  compute  their  own  judge,  and  assigi)  him  his 

place, 
Our  reviewer  would  crawl  all  about  it  and  round  it, 
And,  reporting  each  circumstance  just  as  he  found 

it, 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE  CRFI'ICS.  245 

Without  the  least  malice, — his  record  would  be 

Profoundly  nssthetic  as  that  of  a  flea, 

Which,  supping  on  Wordsworth,  should  print,  for 

our  sakes. 
Recollections  of  nights  with  the  Bard  of  the  Lakes, 
Or,  borne  by  an  Arab  guide,  ventured  to  render  a 
General  view  of  the  ruins  at  Denderah. 

As  I  said,  he  was  never  precisely  unkind, 
The  defect  in  his  brain  was  mere  absence  of  mind  ; 
If  he  boasted,  't  was  simply  that  he  was  self-made, 
A  position  which  I,  for  one,  never  gainsaid. 
My  respect  for  my  Maker  supposing  a  skill 
In  his  works  which  our  hero  would  answer  but  ill ; 
And  I  trust  that  the  mould  which  he  used  may  be 

cracked,  or  he. 
Made  bold  by  success,  may  make  broad  his  phy- 
lactery. 
And  set  up  a  kind  of  a  man-manufactory. 
An  event  which  I  shudder  to  think  about,  seeing 
That  Man  is  a  moral,  accountable  being. 

He  meant   well   enough,   but    was    still  in  the 
way. 
As  a  dunce  always  is,  let  him  be  where  he  may ; 
Indeed,  they  appear  to  come  into  existence 
To  impede  other  folks  with  their  awkward  assist- 
ance : 


246  LOWELL'S  POEAfS. 

If  you  set  up  a  dunce  on  the  very  North  pole, 
All  alone  with  himself,  I  believe,  on  my  soul, 
He  'd  manage  to  get  betwixt  somebody's  shins. 
And  pitch  him  down  bodily,  all  in  his  sins. 
To  the  grave  polar  bears  sitting  round  on  the  ice, 
All  shortening  their  grace,  to  be  in  for  a  slice ; 
Or,  if  he  found  nobody  else  there  to  pother. 
Why,  one  of  his  legs  would  just  trip  up  the  other, 
For  there  's  nothing  we  read  of  in  torture's  inven- 
tions, 
Like  a  well-meaning  dunce,  with  the  best  of  in- 
tentions. 

A  terrible  fellow  to  meet  in  society, 
Not  the  toast  that  he  buttered  was  ever  so  dry  at 

tea; 
There  he  'd  sit  at  the  table  and  stir  in  his  sugar, 
Crouching  close  for  a  spring,  all  the  while,  like  a 

cougar ; 
Be  sure  of  your  facts,  of  your  measures  and  weights. 
Of  your  time  —  he  's  as  fond  as  an  Arab  of  dates ;  — 
You  '11  be  telling,  perhaps,  in  your  comical  way, 
Of  something  you  've  seen  in  the  course  of  the  day  ; 
And,  just  as  you  're  tapering  out  the  conclusion. 
You  venture  an  ill-fated  classic  allusion,  — 
The  girls  have  all  got  their  laughs  ready,  when, 

whack ! 
The  cougar  comes  down  on   your   thunderstruck 

back ; 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  247 

You  had  left  out  a  comma, — your  Greek  's  put  in 

joint, 
And  pointed  at  cost  of  your  story's  whole  point. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening,  you  venture  on  certain 
Soft  speeches  to  Anne,  in  the  shade  of  the  curtain  ; 
You  tell  her  your  heart  can  be  likened  to  one  flower, 
"And  that,  oh  most  charming  of  women,  's  the 

sunflower. 
Which  turns" — here  a  clear  nasal  voice,  to  your 

terror, 
From  outside  the    curtain,    says,   "that  's  all    an 

error." 
As  for  him,  he  's  —  no  matter,  he  never  grew  tender, 
Sitting  after  a  ball,  with  his  feet  on  the  fender, 
Shaping  somebody's  sweet  features  out  of  cigar 

smoke, 
(Though  he  'd  willingly  grant  you  that  such  doings 

are  smoke  ; ) 
All  women  he  damns  with  vmtabilc  semper, 
And  if  ever  he  felt  something  like  love's  distemper, 
'T  was  toward  a  young  lady  who  spoke  ancient 

Mexican, 
And  assisted  her  father  in  making  a  lexicon  ; 
Though  I  recollect  hearing  him  get  quite  ferocious 
About  one  Mary  Clausum,  the  mistress  of  Grotius, 
Or  something  of  that  sort,  —  but,  no  more  to  bore 

ye 
With  character-painting,  I  '11  turn  to  my  story. 


248  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Now,  Apollo,  who  finds  it  convenient  sometimes 
To  get  his  court  clear  of  the  makers  of  rhymes. 
The  genus,  I  think  it  is  called,  irritabile, 
Every  one  of  whom  thinks  himself  treated  most 

shabbily. 
And  nurses  a  —  what  is  it?  —  imniedicabilc, 
Which  keeps  him  at  boiling-point,  hot  for  a  quarrel, 
As  bitter  as  wormwood,  and  sourer  than  sorrel. 
If  any  poor  devil  but  looks  at  a  laurel  ;  — 
Apollo,  I  say,  being  sick  of  their  rioting, 
(Though  he  sometimes   acknowledged  their  verse 

had  a  quieting 
Effect  after  dinner,  and  seemed  to  suggest  a 
Retreat  to  the  shrine  of  a  tranquil  siesta,) 
Kept  our  Hero    at    hand,   who,  by    means    of    a 

bray, 
Which  he  gave  to  the  life,  drove  the  rabble  away ; 
And  if  that  would  n't  do,  he  was  sure  to  succeed, 
If  he  took  his  review  out  and  offered  to  read  ; 
Or,  failing  in  plans  of  this  milder  description. 
He  would  ask  for  their  aid  to  get  up  a  subscrip- 
tion. 
Considering  that  authorship  was  n't  a  rich  craft, 
To  print  the  "  American  drama  of  Witchcraft." 
"  Stay,  I  '11   read  you  a  scene,"  —  but   he  hardly 

began. 
Ere  Apollo  shrieked   "  Help  !  "    and  the  authors 
all  ran  : 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  249 

And  once,  when  these  purgatives  acted  with  less 

spirit, 
And  the  desperate  case  asked  a  remedy  desperate, 
He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  foolscap  epistle, 
As  calmly  as  if  't  were  a  nine-barrelled  pistol, 
And  threatened  them  all  with  the   judgment  to 

come, 
Of    "A    wandering    Star's    first    impressions    of 

Rome." 
"Stop!  stop!"   with  their  hands  o'er  their  ears 

screamed  the  Muses, 
"  He  may  go  off  and  murder  himself,  if  he  chooses, 
'T  was   a  means  self-defence  only  sanctioned  his 

trying, 
'T  is  mere  massacre  now  that  the  enemy  's  flying ; 
If  he  's  forced  to  't  again,  and  we  happen  to  be 

there. 
Give  us  each  a  large  handkerchief  soaked  in  strong 

ether." 

I  called  this  a  "  Fable  for  Critics  ;  "  you  think  it 's 
More  like  a  display  of  my  rhythmical  trinkets  ; 
My  plot,  like  an  icicle,  's  slender  and  slippery. 
Every  moment  more  slender,   and   likely  to   slip 

awry, 
And  the  reader  unwilling  in  loco  dcsipere, 
Is  free  to  jump  over  as  much  of  my  frippery 
As  he  fancies,  and,  if  he  's  a  provident  skipper,  he 


250  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

May  have  an  Odyssean  sway  of  the  gales, 

And  get  safe  into  port,  ere  his  patience  all  fails  ; 

Moreover,  although  't  is  a  slender  return 

For  your  toil  and  expense,  yet  my  paper  will  burn, 

And,  if  you  have  manfully  struggled  thus  far  with 

me. 
You  may  e'en  twist  me  up,   and  just  light  your 

cigar  with  me  : 
If  too  angry  for  that,  you  can  tear  me  in  pieces, 
And  my  mcvibfa  disjecta  consign  to  the  breezes, 
A  fate  like  great   Ratzau's,   whom  one  of  those 

bores, 
Who  beflead  with  bad  verses  poor  Louis  Quatorze, 
Describes,    (the    first   verse    somehow   ends  with 

victoire,) 
As  dispcrsant  partoiit  et  ses  mcnibrcs  ct  sa  gloire  ; 
Or,  if  I  were  over-desirous  of  earning 
A  repute  among  noodles  for  classical  learning, 
I  could  pick  you  a  score  of  allusions,  I  wis, 
As  new  as  the  jests  of  Didaskalos  tis ; 
Better  still,  I  could  make  out  a  good  solid  list 
From  recondite  authors  who  do  not  exist,  — 
But  that  would  be  naughty  :  at  least,  I  could  twist 
Something  out  of  Absyrtus,  or  turn  your  inquiries 
After    Milton's    prose     metaphor,    drawn     from 

Osiris  ;  — 
But,  as  Cicero  says  he  won't  say  this  or  that, 
(A  fetch,  I  must  say,  most  transparent  and  flat,) 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    CRFflCS.  251 

After   saying    whate'cr    he    could    possibly    think 

of,- 
I  simply  will  state  that  I  pause  on  the  brink  of 
A  mire,  ankle-deep,  of  deliberate  confusion. 
Made  up  of  old  jumbles  of  classic  allusion. 
So,   when  you  were    thinking    yourselves    to    be 

pitied. 
Just  conceive  how  much  harder  your  teeth  you  'd 

have  gritted, 
An  't  were  not  for  the  dulness  I  've  kindly  omitted. 

I  'd  apologize  here  for  my  many  digressions, 
Were  it  not  that   I  'm   certain  to  trip  into  fresh 

ones, 
(T  is  so  hard  to  escape   if  you  get   in  their  mesh 

once  ;) 
Just  reflect,  if  you  please,  how  't  is  said  by  Hora- 

tius. 
That  Masonides  nods  now  and  then,  and,  my  gra- 
cious ! 
It  certainly  does  look  a  little  bit  ominous 
When  he  gets  under  way  with   ton  d'apaniciboni- 

enos. 
(Here  a  something  occurs  which  I  '11  just  clap  a 

rhyme  to, 
And  say  it  myself,  ere  a  Zoilus  has  time  to,  — 
Any  author  a  nap  like  Van  Winkle's  may  take, 
If  he  only  contrive  to  keep  readers  awake, 


252  LOWELL'S  POEMS, 

But   he  '11   very   soon    find    himself    laid   on   the 

shelf, 
If  tJiey  fall  a  nodding  when  he  nods  himself.) 

Once  for  all,  to  return,  and  to   stay,  will  I,  nill 

I  — 
When  Phoebus  expressed  his  desire  for  a  lily, 
Our  hero,  whose  homoeopathic  sagacity 
With  an  ocean  of  zeal  mixed  his  drop  of  capacity. 
Set  off  for  the  garden  as  fast  as  the  wind, 
(Or,  to  take  a  comparison  more  to  my  mind, 
As  a  sound  politician  leaves  conscience  behind,) 
And  leaped  the  low  fence,  as  a  party  hack  jumps 
O'er  his  principles,  when  something  else  turns  up 

trumps. 

He  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  Apollo  meanwhile. 
Went  over  some  sonnets  of  his  with  a  file. 
For   of    all    compositions,    he    thought    that    the 

sonnet 
Best  repaid  all  the  toil  you  expended  upon  it ; 
It  should  reach  with  one  impulse  the  end  -of  its 

course. 
And  for  one  final  blow  collect  all  of  its  force ; 
Not  a  verse  should  be  salient,  but  each  one  should 

tend 
With  a  wave-like    up-gathering   to    burst   at  the 

end;  — 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE    CRITICS.  253 

So,  condensing  the  strength  here,  there  smoothing 

a  wry  kink, 

He  was  kilHng  the  time,  when  up  walked  Mr. ; 

At  a  few  steps  behind  him,  a  small  man  in  glasses, 
Went    dodging    about,    muttering    "  murderers  ! 

asses  ! " 
From  out  of  his  pocket  a  paper  he  'd  take, 
With  the  proud  look  of  martyrdom  tied  to  its  stake, 
And,  reading  a  squib  at  himself,  he  'd  say,  "  Here 

I  see 
'Gainst  American  letters  a  bloody  conspiracy, 
Tlfey  are  all  by  my  personal  enemies  written  ; 
I  must  post  an  anonymous  letter  to  Britain, 
And  show  that  this  gall  is  the  merest  suggestion 
Of  spite  at  my  zeal  on  the  Copyright  question. 
For,  on  this  side  the  water,  't  is  prudent  to  pull 
O'er  the  eyes  of  the  public  their  national  wool, 
By  accusing  of  slavish  respect  to  John  Bull, 
All  American  authors  who  have  more  or  less 
Of  that  anti- American  humbug — -success, 
While  in  private  we  're  always  embracing  the  knees 
Of  some  twopenny  editor  over  the  seas, 
And  licking  his  critical  shoes,  for  you  know  't  is 
The  whole  aim  of  our  lives  to  get  one  English 

'  notice  '  ; 
My  American  puffs  I  would  willingly  burn  all, 
(They  're  all  from  one  source,  monthly,  weekly, 

diurnal,) 
To  get  but  a  kick  from  a  transmarine  journal  ! " 


254  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

So,  culling  the  gibes  of  each  critical  scorner 
As  if  they  were   plums,   and    himself  were  Jack 

Horner, 
He  came  cautiously  on,  peeping  round  every  corner. 
And  into  each  hole  where  a  weasel  might  pass  in, 
Expecting  the  knife  of  some  critic  assassin, 
Who  stabs  to  the  heart  with  a  caricature, 
Not  so  bad  as  those  daubs  of  the  Sun,  to  be  sure, 
Yet  done  with  a  dagger-o'-type,  whose  vile  portraits 
Disperse  all  one's  good,   and  condense  all   one's 
poor  traits. 

Apollo  looked  up,  hearing  footsteps  approaching, 
And  slipped  out  of  sight  the  new  rhymes  he  was 
broaching,  — 

"Good  day,  Mr.  ,  I  'm  happy  to  meet 

With  a  scholar  so  ripe,  and  a  critic  so  neat. 

Who  through  Grub-street  the  soul  of  a  gentleman 

carries,  — 
What  news  from  that  suburb  of  London  and  Paris 
Which   latterly  makes   such   shrill   claims   to  mo- 
nopolize 
The  credit  of  being  the  New  World's  metropolis.?" 

"  Why,  nothing  of  consequence,  save  this  attack 
On  my  friend  there,  behind,  by  some  pitiful  hack, 
Who  thinks  every  national  author  a  poor  one. 
That  is  n't  a  copy  of  something  that  's  foreign, 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE  CRITICS.  255 

And  assaults  the  American  Dick — " 

"  Nay,  't  is  clear 
That  your  Damon  there  's  fond  of  a  flea  in  his  ear, 
And,  if  no  one  else  furnished  them  gratis,  on  tick 
He  would  buy  some  himself,  just  to  hear  the  old 

click  ; 
Why,  I  honestly  think,  if  some  fool  in  Japan 
Should  turn  up  his  nose  at  the  '  Poems  on  Man,' 
Your  friend  there  by  some  inward  instinct  would 

know  it, 
Would  get  it  translated,  reprinted,  and  show  it ; 
As  a  man  might  take  off  a  high  stock  to  exhibit 
The  autograph  round  his  own  neck  of  the  gibbet, 
Nor   would  let    it  rest  so,  but  fire  column  after 

column. 
Signed  Cato,  or  Brutus,  or  something  as  solemn. 
By  way  of  displaying  his  critical  crosses, 
And  tweaking  that  poor  transatlantic  proboscis. 
His    broadsides    resulting   (and    this    there   's  no 

doubt  of,) 
In  successively  sinking  the  craft  they  're  fired  out  of. 
Now  nobody  knows  when  an  author  is  hit. 
If  he  don't  have  a  public  hysterical  fit ; 
Let  him  only  keep  close  in  his  snug  garret's  dim 

ether, 
And  nobody  'd  think  of  his  critics  —  or  him  either  ; 
If  an  author  have  any  least  fibre  of  worth  in  him, 
Abuse  would  but  tickle  the  organ  of  mirth  in  him, 


256  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

All  the  critics  on  earth  cannot  crush  with  their  ban, 
One  word  that  's  in  tune  with  the  nature  of  man." 

"Well,  perhaps  so;  meanwhile  I  have  brought 

you  a  book. 
Into  which  if  you  '11  just  have  the  goodness  to  look, 
You  may  feel   so  delighted,  when  you  have  got 

through  it, 
As  to  think  it  not  unworth  your  while  to  review  it. 
And  I  think  I  can  promise  your  thoughts,  if  you 

do, 
A  place  in  the  next  Democratic  Review." 

"  The  most  thankless  of  gods  you  must  surely 

have  tho't  me. 
For  this  is  the  forty-fourth  copy  you  've  brought 

me, 
I  have  given  them  away,  or  at  least  I  have  tried, 
But  I  've  forty-two  left,  standing  all  side  by  side, 
(The  man  who  accepted  that  one  copy,  died,)  — 
From  one  end  of  a  shelf  to  the  other  they  reach, 
'  With  the  author's  respects '  neatly  written  in  each. 
The  publisher,  sure,  will  proclaim  a  Te  Deum, 
When  he  hears  of  that  order  the  British  Museum 
Has  sent  for  one  set  of  what  books  were  first  printed 
In  America,  little  or  big,  —  for  't  is  hinted 
That  this  is  the  first  truly  tangible  hope  he 
Has  ever  had  raised  for  the  sale  of  a  copy. 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE    CRITICS.  257 

I  've  thought  very  often  't  would  be  a  good  thing 

In  all  public  collections  of  books,  if  a  wing 

Were  set  off  by  itself,  like  the  seas  from  the  dry 

lands, 
Marked  Literature  siiited  to  desolate  islands, 
And  filled  with  such  books  as  could  never  be  read 
Save  by   readers   of  proofs,  forced    to    do    it  for 

bread,  — 
Such  books  as  one  's  wrecked  on  in  small  country- 
taverns. 
Such  as  hermits  might  mortify  over  in  caverns. 
Such  as  Satan,  if  printing  had  then  been  invented, 
As  the  climax  of  woe,  would  to  Job  have  presented, 
Such  as  Crusoe  might  dip  in,  although  there  are 

few  so 
Outrageously  cornered  by  fate  as  poor  Crusoe  ; 
And  since  the  philanthropists  just  now  are  banging 
And  gibbeting  all  who  're  in  favor  of  hanging,  — 
(Though  Cheever  has  proved  that  the  Bible  and 

Altar 
Were  let  down  from  Heaven  at  the  end  of  a  halter. 
And  that  vital  religion  would  dull  and  grow  callous, 
Unrefreshed,  now  and  then,  with  a  sniff  of  the 

gallows,)  — 
And  folks  are  beginning  to  think  it  looks  odd. 
To  choke  a  poor  scamp  for  the  glory  of  God ; 
And  that  He  who  esteems  the  Virginia  reel 
A  bait  to  draw  saints  from  their  spiritual  weal, 


258  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  regards  the  quadrille  as  a  far  greater  knavery 
Than  crushing  His  African  children  with  slavery, — 
Since  all  who  take  part  in  a  waltz  or  cotillion 
Are  mounted  for  hell  on  the  Devil's  own  pillion, 
Who,    as    every    true    orthodox    Christian    well 

knows, 
Approaches    the  heart   through   the   door   of  the 

toes,  — 
That   He,    I    was    saying,    whose   judgments    are 

stored 
For  such  as  take  steps  in  despite  of  his  word, 
Should  look  with  delight  on  the  agonized  prancing 
Of  a  wretch  who  has  not  the  least  ground  for  his 

dancing, 
While  the  State,  standing  by,  sings  a  verse  from 

the  Psalter 
About  offering  to  God  on  his  favorite  halter, 
And,    when  the  legs  droop  from  their  twitching 

divergence, 
Sells  the  clothes  to  the  Jew,  and  the  corpse  to  the 

surgeons  ;  — 

Now,  instead  of  all  this,  I  think  I  can  direct  you 
all 
To  a  criminal  code  both  humane  and  effectual ;  — 
I  propose  to  shut  up  every  doer  of  wrong 
With  these  desperate  books,  for  such  term,  short 
or  long, 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    CRITICS.  259 

As  by  statute  in  such  cases  made  and  provided, 

Shall  be  by  your  wise  legislators  decided 

Thus  :  —  Let  murderers   be  shut,   to   grow  wiser 

and  cooler, 

At  hard  labor  for  life  on  the  works  of  Miss ■ ; 

Petty  thieves,  kept  from  flagranter  crimes  by  their 

fears, 
Shall    peruse    Yankee    Doodle   a   blank   term    of 

years,  — 
That  American  Punch,  like  the  English,  no  doubt — 
Just  the  sugar  and  lemons  and  spirit  left  out. 

"  But  stay,  here  comes  Tityrus   Griswold,  and 

leads  on 
The  flocks  whom  he  first  plucks  alive,  and  then 

feeds  on,  — 
A  loud  cackling  swarm,  in  whose  feathers  warm- 

drest. 
He  goes  for  as  perfect  a  —  swan,  as  the  rest. 

"  There  comes  Emerson  first,  whose  rich  words, 

every  one. 
Are  like  gold  nails  in  temples  to  hang  trophies  on. 
Whose  prose  is  grand  verse,  while  his  verse,  the 

Lord  knows. 

Is  some  of  it  pr No,  't  is  not  even  prose  ; 

r  m  speaking  of  metres  ;  some  poems  have  welled 
From   those  rare  depths  of  soul  that  have  ne'er 

been  excelled  ; 


26o  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

They  're  not  epics,  but  that  does  n't  matter  a  pin, 
In  creating,  the  only  hard  thing  's  to  begin ; 
A  grass-blade  's  no  easier  to  make  than  an  oak, 
If  you  've  once  found  the  way,  you  've  achieved 

the  grand  stroke  ; 
In  the  worst  of  his  poems  are  mines  of  rich  matter, 
But  thrown  in  a  heap  with  a  crush  and  a  clatter ; 
Now  it  is  not  one  thing  nor  another  alone 
Makes  a  poem,  but  rather  the  general  tone. 
The  something  pervading,  uniting  the  whole, 
The  before  unconceived,  unconceivable  soul. 
So  that  just  in  removing  this  trifle  or  that,  you 
Take  away,  as  it  were,  a  chief  limb  of  the  statue  ; 
Roots,  wood,  bark,  and  leaves,  singly  perfect  may 

be, 
But,  clapt  hodge-podge  together,  they  don't  make 

a  tree. 

"  But,  to  come  back  to  Emerson,  (whom  by  the 
way, 
I  believe  we  left  waiting,)  —  his  is,  we  may  say, 
A  Greek  head  on  right  Yankee  shoulders,  whose 

range 
Has  Olympus  for  one  pole,  for  t'  other  the  Ex- 
change ; 
He  seems,  to  my  thinking,  (although  I'm  afraid 
The  comparison  must,  long  ere  this,  have  been 
made,) 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  26 1 

A  Plotinus-Montaigne,  where  the  Egyptian's  gold 

mist 
And    the    Gascon's  shrewd  wit  cheek-by-jowl  co- 
exist ; 
All  admire,  and  yet  scarcely  six  converts  he  's  got 
To  I  don't  (nor  they  either)  exactly  know  what  ; 
For  though  he  builds  glorious  temples,  't  is  odd 
He  leaves  never  a  doorway  to  get  in  a  god. 
'T  is  refreshing  to  old-fashioned  people  like  me, 
To  meet  such  a  primitive  Pagan  as  he, 
In  whose  mind  all  creation  is  duly  respected 
As  parts  of  himself  —  just  a  little  projected  ; 
And  who  's  willing  to  worship  the  stars  and  the  sun, 
A  convert  to  —  nothing  but  Emerson. 
So  perfect  a  balance  there  is  in  his  head, 
That  he  talks  of  things  sometimes  as  if  they  were 

dead  ; 
Life,  nature,  love,  God,  and  affairs  of  that  sort. 
He  looks  at  as  merely  ideas  ;  in  short, 
As  if  they  were  fossils  stuck  round  in  a  cabinet. 
Of  such  vast  extent  that  our  earth  's  a  mere  dab  in 

it; 
Composed  just  as  he  is  inclined  to  conjecture  her. 
Namely,    one  part   pure  earth,   ninety-nine  parts 

pure  lecturer ; 
You  are  filled  with  delight  at  his  clear  demonstra- 
tion, 
Each  figure,  word,  gesture,  just  fits  the  occasion, 


262  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

With  the  quiet  precision  of  science  he  '11  sort  'em, 
But   you  can't  help  suspecting  the  whole  a  post 
mortem. 

"There  are  persons,  mole-blind   to    the   soul's 
make  and  style. 
Who  insist  on  a  likeness  'twixt  him  and  Carlyle ; 
To  compare  him  with  Plato  would  be  vastly  fairer, 
Carlyle  's  the  more  burly,  but  E.  is  the  rarer  ; 
He  sees  fewer  objects,  but  clearlier,  truelier. 
If  C.  's  as  original,  E.  's  more  peculiar  ; 
That   he  's  more  of  a  man  you  might  say  of  the 

one. 
Of  the  other  he  's  more  of  an  Emerson  ; 
C.  's  the  Titan,  as  shaggy  of  mind  as  of  limb,  — 
E.  the  clear-eyed  Olympian,  rapid  and  slim  ; 
The    one  's  two-thirds  Norseman,  the  other  half 

Greek, 
Where  the  one  's  most  abounding,  the  other  's  to 

seek  ; 
C.'s  generals  require  to  be  seen  in  the  mass, — 
E.'s  specialties  gain  if  enlarged  by  the  glass  ; 
C.  gives  nature  and  God  his  own  fits  of  the  blues, 
And    rims    common-sense    things    with     mystical 

hues,  — 
E.  sits  in  a  mystery  calm  and  intense, 
And  looks  coolly  around  him  with  sharp  common- 
sense; 


• 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRFITCS.  263 

C.  shows  you  how  every-day  matters  unite 
With  the  dim  transdiurnal  recesses  of  night,  — 
While  E.,  in  a  plain,  preternaturnal  way, 
Makes  mysteries  matters  of  mere  every  day ; 
C.  draws  all  his  characters  quite  a  la  Fuseli,  — 
He    don't    sketch  their   bundles  of    muscles    and 

thews  illy, 
But  he  paints  with  a  brush  so  untamed  and  pro- 
fuse. 
They  seem  nothing  but  bundles  of  muscles  and 

thews ; 
E.  is  rather  like  Flaxman,  lines  strait  and  severe, 
And   a    colorless    outline,    but    full,    round,    and 

clear ;  — 
To  the  men  he  thinks  worthy  he  frankly  accords 
The  design  of  a  white  marble  statue  in  words. 
C.  labors  to  get  at  the  centre,  and  then 
Take  a  reckoning  from  there  of  his  actions  and 

men  ; 
E.  calmly  assumes  the  said  centre  as  granted. 
And,  given  himself,  has  whatever  is  wanted. 

"He  has  imitators  in  scores,  who  omit 
No  part  of  the  man  but  his  wisdom  and  wit,  — 
Who  go  carefully  o'er  the  sky-blue  of  his  brain, 
And  when  he  has  skimmed  it  once,  skim  it  again  ; 
If  at  all  they  resemble  him,  you  may  be  sure  it  is 
Because  their  shoals  mirror  his  mists  and  obscuri- 
ties. 


264  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

As    a   mud-puddle    seems   deep  as    heaven  for  a 

minute, 
While  a  cloud  that  floats  o'er  is  reflected  within  it. 

"There  comes ,  for  instance;  to  see  him 's 

rare  sport, 
Tread   in    Emerson's    tracks  with    legs    painfully- 
short  ; 
How  he  jumps,  how  he  strains,  and  gets  red  in 

the  face, 
To  keep  step  with  the  mystagogue's  natural  pace ! 
He  follows  as  close  as  a  stick  to  a  rocket. 
His  fingers  exploring  the  prophet's  each  pocket. 
Fie,  for  shame,  brother  bard  ;  with  good  fruit  of 

your  own, 
Can't  you  let  neighbor  Emerson's  orchards  alone } 
Besides,  't  is  no  use,  you  '11  not  find  e'en  a  core,  — 

has  picked  up  all  the  windfalls  before. 

They  might  strip   every  tree,  and  E.  never  w^ould 

catch  'em, 
His  Hesperides  have  no  rude  dragon  to  watch  'em  ; 
When  they  send  him  a  dishfull,  and  ask  him  to 

try  'em, 
He   never  suspects  how  the  sly  rogues  came  by 

'em ; 
He  wonders  why  't  is    there  are  none    such  his 

trees  on, 
And  thinks  'em  the  best  he  has  tasted  this  season. 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE   CRITICS.  265 

"Yonder,  calm  as  a  cloud,  Alcott   stalks  in  a 

dream, 
And  fancies  himself  in  thy  groves.  Academe, 
With  the  Parthenon  nigh,  and  the  olive-trees  o'er 

him. 
And  never  a  fact  to  perplex  him  or  bore  him, 
With  a  snug  room  at  Plato's,  when  night  comes, 

to  walk  to, 
And  people  from  morning  till  midnight  to  talk  to, 
And   from    midnight  till   morning,    nor  snore  in 

their  listening  ;  — 
So  he  muses,  his  face  with  the  joy  of  it  glistening, 
For  his  highest  conceit  of  a  happiest  state  is 
Where  they  'd  live  upon  acorns,  and  hear  him  talk 

gratis  ; 
And  indeed,  I  believe,  no  man  ever  talked  better  — 
Each  sentence  hangs  perfectly  poised  to  a  letter ; 
He  seems  piling  words,  but  there  's  royal  dust  hid 
In  the  heart  of  each  sky-piercing  pyramid. 
While  he  talks  he  is  great,  but  goes  out  like  a  taper. 
If  you  shut    him   up   closely  with   pen,   ink,    and 

paper ; 
Yet   his   fingers   itch   for   'em    from   morning    tilh 

night. 
And  he  thinks  he  does  wrong  if  he  don't  always 

write  ; 
In  this,  as  in  all  things,  a  lamb  among  men. 
He  goes  to  sure  death  when  he  goes  to  his  pen. 


266  LOWELL'S  POERTS. 

"Close    behind    him    is    Brownson,    his    mouth 

very  full 
With  attempting  to  gulp  a  Gregorian  bull ; 
Who  contrives,   spite  of  that,  to  pour  out  as  he 

goes 
A  stream  of  transparent  and  forcible  prose ; 
He  shifts  quite  about,  then  proceeds  to  expound 
That  't  is  merely  the  earth,  not  himself,  that  turns 

round, 
And  wishes  it  clearly  impressed  on  your  mind, 
That  the  weather-cock  rules  and  not  follows  the 

wind  ; 
Proving  first,  then  as  deftiy  confuting  each  side, 
With  no  doctrine  pleased  that  's  not  somewhere 

denied. 
He  lays  the  denier  away  on  the  shelf. 
And  then  —  down  beside  him    lies  gravely  him- 
self. 
He  's  the  Salt  River  boatman,  who  always  stands 

willing 
To    convey   friend     or   foe    without     charging    a 

shilling. 
And   so   fond   of    a    trip  that,    when   leisure  's  to 

spare, 
He  '11  row  himself  up,  if  he  can't  get  a  fare. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  that  his  logic  's  so  strong, 
That    of    two    sides    he    commonly   chooses    the 

wrong ; 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE   CIUTICS.  267 

If  there  is  only  one,  why,  he  '11  split  it  in  two, 
And  first  pummel  this  half,  then  that,  black  and 

blue. 
That  white  's  white  needs  no  proof,  but  it  takes  a 

deep  fellow 
To  prove  it  jet-black,  and  that  jet-black  is  yellow 
He  offers  the  true  faith  to  drink  in  a  sieve,  — 
When  it  reaches  your  lips  there  's  naught  left  to 

believe 
But    a   few    silly-    (syllo-,    I    mean,)    -gisms    that 

squat  'em 
Like   tadpoles,   o'erjoyed    with    the    mud   at    the 

bottom. 

"There  is  Willis,  so  7iatty  and  jaunty  and  gay. 
Who  says  his  best  things  in  so  foppish  a  way, 
With  conceits  and  pet  phrases  so  thickly  o'erlay- 

ing  'em. 
That  one  hardly  knows  whether  to  thank  him  for 

saying  'em ; 
Over-ornament  ruins  both  poem  and  prose, 
Just  conceive  of  a  muse  with  a  ring  in  her  nose  ! 
His  prose  had  a  natural  grace  of  its  own. 
And  enough  of  it,  too,  if  he  'd  let  it  alone  ; 
But    he    twitches    and   jerks    so,  one   fairly   gets 

tired, 
And   is  forced  to  forgive  where  he  might  have 

admired ; 


268  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

Yet  whenever  it  slips  away  free  and  unlaced, 
It  runs  like  a  stream  with  a  musical  waste, 
And  gurgles  along  with  the  liquidest  sweep  ;  — 
'T  is  not  deep  as  a  river,  but  who  'd  have  it  deep  ? 
In  a  country  where  scarcely  a  village  is  found 
That  has  not  its  author  sublime  and  profound, 
For  some  one  to  be  slightly  shoal  is  a  duty. 
And  Willis's  shallowness  makes  half  his  beauty. 
His    prose  winds    along  with  a   blithe,   gurgling 

error. 
And  reflects  all  of  Heaven  it  can  see  in  its  mirror. 
'T  is  a  narrowish  strip,  but  it  is  not  an  artifice, — 
'T  is  the  true  out-of-doors  with  its  genuine  hearty 

phiz ; 
It   is   Nature   herself,  and  there  's  something  in 

that, 
Since  most  brains  reflect  but  the  crown  of  a  hat. 
No  volume  I  know  to  read  under  a  tree. 
More  truly  delicious  than  his  A  1'  Abri, 
With   the    shadows   of  leaves   flowing  over  your 

book. 
Like  ripple-shades  netting  the  bed  of  a  brook ; 
With  June  coming  softly  your  shoulder  to  look 

over. 
Breezes  waiting  to  turn   every  leaf  of  your  book 

over. 
And  Nature  to  criticise  still  as  you  read,  — 
The  page  that  bears  that  is  a  rare  one  indeed. 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  269 

"  He  's  so  innate  a  cockney,  that  had  he  been 
born 

Where  plain  bare-skin  's  the  only  full-dress  that  is 
worn, 

He  'd  have  given  his  own  such  an  air  that  you  'd 
say 

'T  had  been  made  by  a  tailor  to  lounge  in  Broad- 
way. 

His  nature  's  a  glass  of  champagne  with  the  foam 
on  't, 

As  tender  as  Fletcher,  as  witty  as  Beaumont  ; 

So  his  best  things  are  done  in  the  flush  of  the 
moment, 

If  he  wait,  all  is  spoiled  ;  he  may  stir  it  and  shake  it, 

But,  the  fixed  air  once  gone,  he  can  never  re-make  it; 

He  might  be  a  marvel  of  easy  delightfulness. 

If  he  would  not  sometimes  leave  the  r  out  of 
sprightfulness  ; 

And  he  ought  to  let  Scripture  alone  —  't  is  self- 
slaughter, 

For  nobody  likes  inspiration-and-water. 

He  'd  have  been  just  the  fellow  to  sup  at  the  Mer- 
maid, 

Cracking  jokes  at  rare  Ben,  with  an  eye  to  the  bar- 
maid. 

His  wit  running  up  as  Canary  ran  down,  — 

The  topmost  bright  bubble  on  the  wave  of  The 
Town. 


270  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

"  Here  comes  Parker,  the  Orson  of  parsons,  a 

man 
Whom  the   Church   undertook  to   put  under  her 

ban,  — 
(The  Church  of  Socinus,  I  mean)  —  his  opinions 
Being    So-  (ultra)  -cinian,    they   shocked   the    So- 

cinians ; 
They  believed  —  faith  I  'm   puzzled  —  I  think  I 

may  call 
Their  belief  a  believing  in  nothing  at  all. 
Or  something  of  that  sort ;  I  know  they  all  went 
For  a  general  union  of  total  dissent  : 
He  went  a  step  farther ;  without  cough  or  hem, 
He  frankly  avowed  he  believed  not  in  them  ; 
And,  before  he  could  be  jumbled  up  or  prevented. 
From  their  orthodox  kind  of  dissent  he  dissented. 
There  was  heresy  here,  you  perceive,  for  the  right 
Of  privately  judging  means  simply  that  light 
Has  been  granted  to  me,  for  deciding  on  j'ou, 
And,  in  happier  times,  before  Atheism  grew, 
The  deed  contained  clauses  for  cooking  you,  too. 
Now  at  Xerxes  and  Knut  we  all  laugh,  yet  our 

foot 
With  the  same  wave  is  wet  that  mocked   Xerxes 

and  Knut ; 
And  we  all  entertain  a  sincere  private  notion, 
That  our  Tims  far !  will  have  a  great  weight  with 

the  ocean. 


A  FABLE  FOR    THE   CRFIICS.  27 1 

'T  was  so  with  our  liberal  Christians  :  they  bore 
With   sincerest    conviction    their    chairs    to    the 

shore ; 
They  brandished  their  worn  theological  birches, 
Bade  natural  progress  keep  out  of  the  Churches, 
And  expected  the  lines  they  had  drawn  to  prevail 
With  the  fast-rising  tide  to  keep  out  of  their  pale; 
They  had  formerly  dammed  the  Pontifical  See, 
And  the  same  thing,  they  thought,  would  do  nicely 

for  P.  ; 
But  he  turned  up  his  nose  at  their  murmuring  and 

shamming, 
And  cared  (shall  I  say  ? )  not  a  d —  for  their  dam- 
ming ; 
So  they  first  read  him  out  of  their  Church,  and 

next  minute 
Turned  round  and  declared  he  had  never  been  in  it. 
But  the  ban  was  too  small  or  the  man  was  too  big, 
For  he  recks  not  their  bells,  books,  and  candles  a 

fio-  ■ 
(He  don't  look  like  a  man  who  would  stay  treated 

shabbily, 
Sophroniscus'    son's    head    o'er    the    features    of 

Rabelais  ; )  — 
He  bangs  and  bethwacks  them,  —  their  backs  he 

salutes 
With  the  whole  tree  of  knowledge  torn  up  by  the 

roots ; 


272  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

His  sermons  with  satire  are  plenteously  verjuiced, 
And  he  talks   in  one  breath  of  Confutzee,  Cass, 

Zerduscht, 
Jack  Robinson,  Peter  the  Hermit,  Strap,  Dathan, 
Cush,  Pitt  (not  the  bottomless,  tJiat  he  's  no  faith 

in), 
Pan,  Pillicock,  Shakspeare,  Paul,  Toots,  Monsieur 

Tonson, 
Aldebaran,  Alcander,  Ben  Khorat,  Ben  Jonson, 
Thoth,  Richter,  Joe  Smith,   Father  Paul,   Judah 

Monis, 
Musseus,  Muretus,  hem,  —  ;j-  Scorpionis, 
Maccabee,  Maccaboy,   Mac  —  Mac  —  ah  !  Machi- 

avelli, 
Condorcet,  Count  d'Orsay,  Conder,   Say,  Gangan- 

elli, 
Orion,  O'Connell,  the  Chevalier  D'O, 
(Whom  the  great  Sully  speaks  of,)  -to  ■rrav,  the  great 

toe 
Of  the  statue  of  Jupiter,  now  made  to  pass 
For  that  of  Jew  Peter  by  good  Romish  brass,  — 
(You  may  add  for  yourselves,  for  I  find  it  a  bore, 
All  the  names  you  have  ever,  or  not,  heard  before. 
And  when  you  've  done  that  —  why,  invent  a  few 

more.) 
His  hearers  can't  tell  you  on  Sunday  beforehand. 
If  in   that   day's   discourse  they  '11  be  Bibled  or 

Koraned, 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  273 

For  he  's  seized  the  idea  (by  his  martyrdom  fired,) 
That  all  men  (not  ojthodox)  may  be  inspired  ; 
Yet,  though  wisdom  profane  with  his  creed  he  may 

weave  in, 
He  makes  it  quite  clear  what  he  docsjit  believe  in, 
While  some,  who  decry  him,  think  all  Kingdom 

Come 
Is  a  sort  of  a,  kind  of  a,  species  of  Hum, 
Of  which,  as  it  were,  so  to  speak,  not  a  crumb 
Would  be  left,  if  we  did  n't  keep  carefully  mum, 
And,  to  make  a  clean  breast,  that  't  is  perfectly 

plain 
That  ail  kinds  of  wisdom  are  somewhat  profane  ; 
Now    P.'s    creed    than    this    may  be    lighter   or 

darker, 
But  in  one  thing,  't  is  clear,  he  has  faith,  namely 

—  Parker ; 
And  this  is  what  makes  him  the  crowd-drawing 

preacher, 
There  's  a  back-ground  of  god  to  each  hard-work- 
ing feature. 
Every  word  that  he  speaks  has  been  fierily  furnaced 
In  the  blast  of  a  life  that  has  struggled  in  earnest  : 
There  he  stands,  looking  more  like  a  ploughman 

than  priest. 
If  not  dreadfully  awkward,  not  graceful  at  least. 
His  gestures  all  downright  and  same,  if  you  will, 
As  of  brown-fisted  Hobnail  in  hoeing  a  drill, 


274  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

But  his  periods  fall  on  you,  stroke  after  stroke, 
Like  the  blows  of  a  lumberer  felling  an  oak, 
You  forget  the  man  wholly,  you  're  thankful  to  meet 
With  a  preacher  who  smacks  of  the  field  and  the 

street, 
And  to  hear,  you  're  not  over-particular  whence. 
Almost  Taylor's  profusion,  quite  Latimer's  sense. 

"  There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and  as  dig- 
nified. 
As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is  ignified, 
Save  when  by  reflection  't  is  kindled  o'  nights 
With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill  Northern 

Lights. 
He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first  bard  of  your 

nation, 
(There  's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in  supreme  ice- 

olation,) 
Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his  heel  on. 
But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  following  peal 

on,  — 
He  's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang  any  zeal 

on  : 
Unqualified  merits,  I  '11  grant,  if  you  choose,  he  has 

'em. 
But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling  enthusiasm  ; 
If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,  on  my  soul. 
Like  being  stirred  up  with  the  very  North  Pole. 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    CRITICS.  275 

"  He  is  very  nice  reading  in  summer,  but  inter 

Nos,  we  don't  want  extra  freezing  in  winter ; 

Take  him  up  in  the  depth  of  July,  my  advice  is, 

When  you  feel  an  Egyptian  devotion  to  ices. 

But,  deduct  all  you  can,  there  's  enough  that 's  right 
good  in  him, 

He  has  a  true  soul  for  field,  river,  and  wood  in  him  ; 

And  his  heart,  in  the  midst  of  brick  walls,  or 
where'er  it  is. 

Glows,  softens,  and  thrills  with  the  tenderest  char- 
ities, — 

To  you  mortals  that  delve  in  this  trade-ridden 
planet  ? 

No,  to  old  Berkshire's  hills,  with  their  limestone 
and  granite. 

If  you  're  one  who  in  loco  {a.dd/oco  here)  desipis, 

You  will  get  of  his  outermost  heart  (as  I  guess)  a 
piece  ; 

But  you  'd  get  deeper  down  if  you  came  as  a  preci- 
pice, 

And  would  break  the  last  seal  of  its  inwardest 
fountain, 

If  you  only  could  palm  yourself  off  for  a  mountain. 

Mr.  Quivis,  or  somebody  quite  as  discerning. 

Some  scholar  who  's  hourly  expecting  his  learning. 

Calls  B.  the  American  Wordsworth  ;  but  Words- 
worth 

Is  worth  near  as  much  as  your  whole  tuneful  herd  's 
worth. 


2/6  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

No,  don't  be  absurd,  he  's  an  excellent  Bryant ; 
But,  my  friends,  you  '11  endanger  the  life  of  your 

client, 
By  attempting  to  stretch  him  up  into  a  giant  : 
If  you  choose  to  compare  him,  I  think  there  are 

two  per- 
-sons  fit  for  a  parallel  —  Thomson  and  Cowper  ;^ 
I  don't  mean  exactly,  —  there  's  something  of  each. 
There   's    T.'s   love   of    nature,  C.'s  penchant   to 

preach  ; 
Just  mix  up  their  minds  so  that  C.'s  spice  of  crazi- 

ness 
Shall  balance  and  neutralize  T.'s  turn  for  laziness. 
And  it  gives  you  a  brain  cool,  quite  frictionless, 

quiet, 
Whose  internal  police  nips  the  buds  of  all  riot,  — 
A  brain  like  a  permanent  strait-jacket  put  on 
The  heart  vi^hich  strives  vainly  to  burst  off  a  but- 
ton, — 
A  brain  which,  without  being  slow  or  mechanic, 
Does  more  than  a  larger  less  drilled,  more  volcanic  ; 
He  's  a  Cowper  condensed,  with  no  craziness  bitten, 
And  the  advantage  that  Wordsworth  before  him 

has  written. 

1  To  demonstrate  quickly  and  easily  how  per- 
-versely  absurd  't  is  to  sound  this  name  Cowper, 
As  people  in  general  call  him  named  super, 
I  just  add  that  he  rhymes  it  himself  with  horse-trooper. 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  277 

"But,   my  clear  little  bardlings,  don't  prick  up 
your  ears, 
Nor  suppose  I  would  rank  you  and  Bryant  as  peers ; 
If  I  call  him  an  iceberg,  I  don't  mean  to  say 
There  is  nothing  in  that  which  is  grand,  in  its  way ; 
He  is  almost  the  one  of  your  poets  that  knows 
How  much  grace,  strength,  and  dignity  He  in  Re- 
pose ; 
If  he  sometimes  fall  short,  he  is  too  wise  to  mar 
His  thought's  modest  fulness  by  going  too  far  ; 
'T  w^ould  be  well  if  your  authors  should  all  make  a 

trial 
Of  what  virtue  there  is  in  severe  self-denial, 
And  measure  their  writings  by  Hesiod's  staff. 
Which  teaches  that  all  has  less  value  than  half. 

"  There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling  and  vehe- 
ment heart 

Strains  the  strait-breasted  drab  of  the  Quaker 
apart, 

And  reveals  the  live  Man,  still  supreme  and  erect 

Underneath  the  bemummying  wrappers  of  sect ; 

There  was  ne'er  a  man  born  who  had  more  of  the 
swing 

Of  the  true  lyric  bard  and  all  that  kind  of  thing ; 

And  his  failures  arise,  (though  perhaps  he  don't 
know  it,) 

From  the  very  same  cause  that  has  made  him  a 
poet,  — 


278  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

A  fervor  of  mind  which  knows  no  separation 
'Twixt  simple  excitement  and  pure  inspiration, 
As  my  Pythoness  erst  sometimes  erred  from  not 

knowing 
If  't  were  I  or  mere  wind  through  her  tripod  was 

blowing  ; 
Let  his  mind  once  get  head  in  its  favorite  direction 
And    the    torrent    of  verse    bursts    the    dams    of 

reflection, 
While,  borne  with  the  rush  of  the  meter  along, 
The  poet  may  chance  to  go  right  or  go  wrong. 
Content  with  the  whirl  and  delirium  of  song ; 
Then  his  grammar  's  not  always  correct,  nor  his 

rhymes, 
And  he  's  prone  to  repeat  his  own  lyrics  sometimes. 
Not  his  best,  though,  for  those  are  struck  off  at 

white-heats 
When  the  heart  in  his  breast  like  a  trip-hammer 

beats, 
And  can  ne'er  be  repeated  again  any  more 
Than   they   could    have     been    carefully    plotted 

before  : 
Like  old  what  's-his-name  there  at  the  battle   of 

Hastings, 
(Who,  however,  gave  more  than  mere  rhythmical 

bastings,) 
Our  Quaker  leads  off  metaphorical  fights 
For  reform  and  whatever  they  call  human  rights. 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  279 

Both  singing  and  striking  in  front  of  the  war 
And  hitting  his  foes  with  the  mallet  of  Thor ; 
Anne  Jiacc,  one  exclaims,  on  beholding  his  knocks, 
Vestisfilii  tiii,  O,  leather-clad  Fox  ? 
Can  that  be  thy  son,  in  the  battle's  mid  din, 
Preaching  brotherly  love  and  then  driving  it  in 
To  the  brain  of  the  tough  old  Goliath  of  sin. 
With  the    smoothest    of   pebbles    from    Castaly's 

spring 
Impressed  on  his  hard  moral  sense  with  a  sling  ? 

"  All  honor  and  praise  to  the  right-hearted  bard 
Who  was   true   to   The  Voice  when  such  service 

was  hard. 
Who  himself   was  so  free  he  dared  sing  for  the 

slave 
When  to  look  but  a  protest  in  silence  was  brave ; 
All  honor  and  praise  to  the  women  and  men 
Who  spoke  out  for  the  dumb  and  the  down-trodden 

then  ! 
I  need  not  to  name  them,  already  for  each 
I  see  History  preparing  the  statue  and  niche; 
They  were  harsh,  but  shall  you  be  so  shocked  at 

hard  words 
Who  have    beaten    your   pruning-hooks    up    into 

swords. 
Whose  rewards  and  hurrahs  men  are  surer  to  gain 
By  the  reaping  of  men  and  of  women  than  grain  ? 


28o  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Why  should  yon  stand  aghast  at  their  fierce  wordy 

war,  if 
You  scalp  one  another  for  Bank  or  for  Tariff  ? 
Your  calling  them  cut-throats  and  knaves  all  day 

long 
Don't   prove   that  the    use   of  hard    language    is 

wrong ; 
While  the  World's  heart  beats  quicker  to  think  of 

such  men 
As  signed  Tyranny's  doom  with   a  bloody  steel- 
pen, 
While  on  Fourth-of-Julys  beardless  orators  fright 

one 
With  hints  at  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton, 
You    need    not    look    shy    at    your    sisters    and 

brothers 
Who  stab  with  sharp  words  for  the  freedom  of 

others ; — 
No,  a  wreath,  twine   a  wreath  for  the    loyal  and 

true 
Who,  for  sake  of  the  many,  dared  stand  with  the 

few, 
Not  of  blood-spattered  laurel  for  enemies  braved. 
But    of    broad,    peaceful    oak-leaves    for   citizens 

saved  ! 

"Here  comes  Dana,  abstractedly  loitering  along, 
Involved  in  a  paulo-post-future  of  song, 


A    FABLE  FOR   THE    CJUTICS.  28 1 

Who  '11  be  going  to  write  what  '11  never  be  written 
Till  the  Muse,  ere  he  thinks  of  it,  gives  him  the 

mitten,  — 
Who   is   so  well  aware  of  how  things  should  'be 

done, 
That  his  own  works  displease  him  before  they  're 

begun,  — 
Who    so   well    all    that    makes    up    good    poetry 

knows. 
That  the  best  of  his  poems  is  written  in  prose  ; 
All  saddled  and  bridled  stood  Pegasus  waiting. 
He  was  booted  and  spurred,  but  he  loitered  de- 
bating. 
In  a  very  grave  question  his  soul  was  immersed, -- 
Which  foot  in  the  stirrup  he  ought  to  put  first  ; 
And,  while  this  point  and  that  he  judicially  dwelt 

on, 
He,  somehow  or  other,  had  written  Paul  Felton, 
Whose  beauties   or  faults,  whichsoever   you    see 

there. 
You  '11  allow  only  genius  could  hit  upon  either. 
That  he  once  was  the  Idle  Man  none  will  deplore, 
But  I  fear  he  will  never  be  any  thing  more  ; 
The  ocean  of  song  heaves  and  glitters  before  him, 
The  depth   and  the  vastness  and  longing  sweep 

o'er  him, 
He  knows  every  breaker  and  shoal  on  the  chart, 
He  has  the  Coast  Pilot  and  so  on  by  heart. 


282  L O  WELL 'S  POEMS. 

Yet  he  spends  his  whole  life,  like  the  man   in  the 

fable, 
In  learning  to  swim  on  his  library-table. 

"  There  swaggers  John  Neal,  who  has  wasted  in 

Maine 
The  sinews  and  chords  of  his  pugilist  brain. 
Who  might  have  been  poet,  but  that,  in  its  stead, 

he 
Preferred  to  believe  that  he  was  so  already ; 
Too  hasty  to  wait  till  Art's  ripe  fruit  should  drop. 
He  must  pelt  down  an  unripe  and  colicky  crop  ; 
Who  took  to  the  law,  and  had  this  sterling  plea 

for  it. 
It  required  him   to   quarrel,  and  paid  him  a  fee 

for  it ; 
A  man   who  's  made   less  than   he    might    have, 

because 
He   always   has    thought    himself   more   than    he 

was,  — 
Who,  with  very  good  natural  gifts  as  a  bard. 
Broke  the  strings  of  his  lyre  out  by  striking  too 

hard. 
And  cracked  half  the  notes  of  a  truly  fine  voice. 
Because    song  drew   less    instant    attention   than 

noise. 
Ah,  men  do  not   know  how  much   strength  is  in 

poise. 


A   FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  283 

That  he  goes  the  farthest  who  goes  far  enough, 
And  that  all  beyond  that  is  just  bother  and  stuff. 
No  vain  man  matures,  he  makes  too  much  new 

wood  ; 
His  blooms  are  too  thick  for  the  fruit  to  be  good  ; 
'T  is  the  modest  man  ripens,  't  is  he  that  achieves, 
Just  what  's  needed  of    sunshine    and    shade   he 

receives  ; 
Grapes,  to  mellow,  require  the  cool  dark  of  their 

leaves  ; 
Neal  wants  balance  ;  he  throws  his   mind  always 

too  far, 
And  whisks  out  flocks  of  comets,  but  never  a  star  ; 
He  has  so  much  muscle,  and  loves  so  to  show  it. 
That    he  strips  himself   naked  to  prove   he  's  a 

poet. 
And,  to  show  he  could  leap  Art's  wide  ditch,  if  he 

tried, 
Jumps  clean  o'er  it,  and  into  the  hedge  t'  other  side. 
He  has  strength,  but  there  's  nothing  about  him 

in  keeping ; 
One  gets  surelier  onward  by  walking  than  leaping  ; 
He  has  used  his  own  sinews  himself  to  distress, 
And  had    done  vastly  more  had  he   done  vastly 

less ; 
In  letters,  too  soon  is  as  bad  as  too  late. 
Could  he  only  have  waited  he  might  have  been 

great. 


2 84  LO WELL 'S  POEMS. 

But  he  plumped  into  Helicon  up  to  the  waist, 
And   muddied  the  stream    ere  he  took    his  first 
taste. 

"There  is  Hawthorne,  with  genius  so  shrinking 
and  rare 
That  you  hardly  at  first  see  the  strength  that  is 

there ; 
A  frame  so  robust,  with  a  nature  so  sweet, 
So  earnest,  so  graceful,  so  solid,  so  fleet. 
Is  worth  a  descent  from  Olympus  to  meet ; 
'T  is  as  if  a  rough  oak  that  for  ages  had  stood. 
With  his  gnarled  bony  branches  like  ribs  of  the 

wood. 
Should  bloom,  after  cycles  of  struggle  and  scathe. 
With  a  single  anemone  trembly  and  rathe  ; 
His  strength  is  so  tender,  his  wildness  so  meek. 
That  a  suitable  parallel  sets  one  to  seek,  — 
He  's  a  John  Bunyan  Fouque,  a  Puritan  Tieck  ; 
When    Nature   was    shaping   him,    clay   was    not 

granted 
For  making  so  full-sized  a  man  as  she  wanted, 
So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she  spared 
From  some  finer-grained  stuff  for  a  woman  pre- 
pared, 
And    she   could    not    have    hit   a  more  excellent 

plan 
For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man. 


A    FABLE  FOR   THE   CRITICS.  285 

The    success    of  her  scheme  gave   her  so    much 

delight, 
That  she  tried  it  again,  shortly  after,  in  Dwight ; 
Only,  while   she  was  kneading   and   shaping  the 

clay. 
She  sang  to  her  work  in  her  sweet  childish  way. 
And  found,  when  she  'd  put  the  last  touch  to  his 

soul. 
That  the  music  had  somehow  got  mixed  with  the 

whole. 

"  Here  's  Cooper,  who  's  written  six  volumes  to 

show 
He  's  as  good   as  a  lord  :  well,  let  's  grant   that 

he  's  so  ; 
If  a  person  prefer  that  description  of  praise, 
Why,  a  coronet  's  certainly  cheaper  than  bays ; 
But  he  need  take  no  pains  to  convince  us  he'  s 

not 
(As  his  enemies  say)  the  American  Scott. 
Choose  any  twelve  men,  and  let  C.  read  aloud 
That  one  of  his  novels  of  which  he  's  most  proud. 
And  I  'd  lay  any  bet  that,  without  ever  quitting 
Their  box,  they  'd  be  all,  to  a  man,  for  acquitting. 
He  has  drawn  you  one  character,  though,  that  is 

new. 
One  wildflower  he  's  plucked  that  is  wet  with  the 

dew 


286  LO  WELL 'S  POEMS. 

Of  this  fresh  Western  world,  and,  the  thing  not 

to  mince. 
He  has  done  naught  but  copy  it  ill  ever  since ; 
His  Indians,  with  proper  respect  be  it  said, 
Are  just  Natty  Bumpo  daubed  over  with  red, 
And  his  very  Long  Toms  are  the  same  useful  Nat, 
Rigged  up  in  duck  pants  and  a  sou'-wester  hat, 
(Though,  once  in  a  Coffin,  a  good  chance  was  found 
To  have  slipt  the  old  fellow  away  underground.) 
All  his  other  men-figures  are  clothes  upon  sticks. 
The  dernier  chemise  of  a  man  in  a  fix, 
(As  a  captain  besieged,  when  his  garrison  's  small. 
Sets  up  caps  upon  poles  to  be  seen  o  'er  the  wall ;) 
And  the  women  he  draws  from  one  model  don't  vary, 
All  sappy  as  maples  and  flat  as  a  prairie. 
When  a  character  's  wanted,  he  goes  to  the  task 
As  a  cooper  would  do  in  composing  a  cask ; 
He  picks  out  the  staves,  of  their  qualities  heedful, 
Just  hoops  them  together  as  tight  as  is  needful, 
And,   if   the    best  fortune   should  crown   the   at- 
tempt, he 
Has  made    at    the    most  something  wooden   and 
empty. 

"  Don't    suppose    I    would    underrate    Cooper's 
abilities, 
If  I  thought  you  'd  do  that,  I  should  feel  very  ill 
at  ease ; 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  287 

The  men  who  have  given  to  one  character  life 

And  objective  existence,  are  not  very  rife, 

You   may   number    them  all,    both    prose-writers 

and   singers, 
Without  overrunning  the  bounds  of  your  fingers, 
And  Natty  won't  go  to  oblivion  quicker 
Than  Adams  the  parson  or  Primrose  the  vicar. 

"There  is  one  thing  in  Cooper  I  like,  too,  and 

that  is 
That    on    manners    he    lectures    his    countrymen 

gratis ; 
Not  precisely  so  either,  because,  for  a  rarity. 
He  is  paid  for  his  tickets  in  unpopularity. 
Now  he  may  overcharge  his  American  pictures. 
But  you  '11  grant  there  's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in 

his  strictures  ; 
And  I  honor  the  man  who  is  willing  to  sink 
Half  his  present  repute  for  the  freedom  to  think. 
And,  when  he  has  thought,  be  his  cause  strong 

or  weak, 
Will  risk  t'  other  half  for  the  freedom  to  speak, 
Caring  naught  for  what  vengeance  the  mob  has 

in  store. 
Let  that  mob  be  the  upper  ten  thousand  or  lower. 

"There  are  truths  you  Americans  need  to  be 
told, 
And  it  never  '11  refute  them  to  swagger  and  scold  ; 


288  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

John  Bull,  looking  o  'er  the  Atlantic,  in  choler 
At  your  aptness  for  trade,  says  you  worship  the 

dollar ; 
But  to  scorn  such  i-dollar-try  's  what  very  few  do. 
And  John  goes  to  that  church  as  often  as  you  do. 
No  matter  what  John  says,  don 't  try  to  outcrow  him, 
'T  is  enough  to  go  quietly  on  and  outgrow  him  ; 
Like  most  fathers,  Bull  hates  to  see  Number  One 
Displacing  himself  in  the  mind  of  his  son, 
And    detests    the    same   faults    in    himself   he  'd 

neglected 
When    he   sees   them  again   in  his   child's  glass 

reflected ; 
To  love  one  another  you  're  too  likely  by  half, 
If  he  is  a  bull,  you  're  a  pretty  stout  calf. 
And  tear  your  own  pasture  for  naught  but  to  show 
What  a  nice  pair  of  horns  you  're  beginning  to 

grow. 

"There  are  one  or  two  things  I  should  just  like 

to  hint. 
For  you  don't  often   get   the  truth   told  you    in 

print  ; 
The  most  of  you  (this  is  what  strikes  all  beholders) 
Have  a  mental  and  physical  stoop  in  the  shoulders ; 
Though  you  ought  to  be  free  as  the  winds  and 

the  waves, 
You  've   the   gait    and  the    manners    of  runaway 

slaves  ; 


A   FABLE  FOR   THE   CRITICS.  289 

Tho'  you  brag  of  your  New  World,  you  don't  half 

believe  in  it, 
And    as  much   of    the   Old  as  is  possible   weave 

in  it ; 
Your  goddess  of  freedom,  a  tight,  buxom  girl, 
With  lips  like  a  cherry  and  teeth  like  a  pearl, 
With  eyes  bold  as  Here's,  and  hair  floating  free, 
And  full  of  the  sun  as  the  spray  of  the  sea. 
Who  can  sing  at  a  husking  or  romp  at  a  shearing. 
Who  can  trip  through  the  forests  alone  without 

fearing, 
Who  can  drive  home  the  cows  with  a  song  through 

the  grass. 
Keeps  glancing  aside  into  Europe's  cracked  glass, 
Hides    her  red  hands  in  gloves,  pinches  up  her 

lithe  waist, 
And    makes    herself   wretched    with    transmarine 

taste  ; 
She   loses    her   fresh    country    charm    when    she 

takes 
Any  mirror  except  her  own-  rivers  and  lakes. 

**  You  steal  Englishmen's  books  and  think  Eng- 
lishmen's thought. 
With  their  salt    on   her   tail   your   wild  eagle    is 

caught ; 
Your  literature  suits  its  each  whisper  and  motion 
To  what  will  be  thought  of  it  over  the  ocean  ; 


290  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The   cast  clothes   of   Europe   your  statesmanship 

tries 
And  mumbles  again  the  old  blarneys  and  lies  ;  — 
Forget    Europe    wholly,    your    veins    throb    with 

blood 
To  which  the  dull  current  in  hers  is  but  mud  ; 
Let  her  sneer,  let  her  say  your  experiment  fails. 
In  her  voice  there  's  a  tremble  e'en  now  while  she 

rails, 
And  your  shore   will    soon   be    in    the  nature   of 

things 
Covered    thick    with    gilt    driftwood    of   runaway 

kings, 
Where  alone,  as  it  were  in  a  Longfellow's  Waif, 
Her  fugitive  pieces  will  find  themselves  safe. 
O,  my  friends,  thank  your  God,   if  you  have  one, 

that  he 
'Twixt  the  Old  World  and  you  set  the  gulf  of  a 

sea; 
Be  strong-backed,   brown-handed,  upright  as  your 

pines, 
By  the  scale  of  a  hemisphere  shape  your  designs. 
Be  true  to  yourselves  and  this  new  nineteenth  age. 
As  a  statue  by  Powers,  or  a  picture  by  Page, 
Plough,  dig,  sail,  forge,   build,  carve,  paint,  make 

all  things  new. 
To  your  own  New-World  instincts  contrive  to  be 

true, 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE  CRITICS.  29 1 

Keep  your  ears  open  wide  to  the  Future's  first  call, 
Be  whatever  you  will,  but  yourselves  first  of  all, 
Stand  fronting  the  dawn  on  Toil's  heaven-scaling 

peaks. 
And    become    my    new    race    of    more    practical 

Greeks.  — 
Hem  !  your  likeness  at  present,  I  shudder  to  tell 

o  't. 
Is  that  you  have  your  slaves,  and  the  Greek  had 

his  helot." 

Here  a  gentleman  present,  who  had  in  his  attic 
More  pepper  than  brains,  shrieked  —  "The  man  's 

a  fanatic, 
I  'm  a  capital  tailor  with  warm  tar  and  feathers, 
And  will  make  him  a    suit  that   '11  serve    in    all 

weathers ; 
But  we  '11  argue  the  point  first,  I  'm  willing   to 

reason  't. 
Palaver  before  condemnation  's  but  decent. 
So,  through  my  humble  person.  Humanity  begs 
Of  the  friends  of  true  freedom  a  loan  of  bad  eggs." 
But  Apollo  let  one  such  a  look  of  his  show  forth 
As  when  Tji«  vv->ni  iotxihg,  and  so  forth. 
And  the  gentleman  somehow  slunk  out  of  the  way. 
But,  as  he  was  going,  gained  courage  to  say,  — 
"  At  slavery  in  the  abstract  my  whole  soul  rebels, 
I  am  as  strongly  opposed  to  't  as  any  one  else," 


292  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

"  Ay,  no  doubt,  but  whenever  I  've  happened  to 

meet 
With  a  wrong  or  a  crime,  it  is  always  concrete," 
Answered  Phoebus  severely  ;  then  turning  to  us, 
"  The  mistakes  of  such  fellows  as  just   made  the 

fuss 
Is  only  in  taking  a  great  busy  nation 
For  a  part  of  their  pitiful  cotton-plantation.  — 
But  there  comes  Miranda,  Zeus  !  where  shall  I  flee 

to? 
She  has  such  a  penchant  for  bothering  me  too ! 
She  always  keeps  asking  if  I  don't  observe  a 
Particular  likeness  'twixt  her  and  Minerva ; 
She   tells    me    my    efforts    in    verse    are    quite 

clever;  — 
She  's  been  travelling  now,  and  will  be  worse  than 

ever  ; 
One  would  think,  though,   a  sharp-sighted  noter 

she  'd  be 
Of  all  that  's  worth  mentioning  over  the  sea, 
For  a  woman  must  surely  see  well,  if  she  try. 
The  whole  of  whose  being  's  a  capital  I  : 
She   will  take  an    old    notion   and    make    it   her 

own 
By  saying  it  o'er  in  her  Sybilline  tone. 
Or   persuade    you   't    is    something  tremendously 

deep, 
By  repeating  it  so  as  to  put  you  to  sleep  ; 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    CRITICS.  293 

And  she  well  may  defy  any  mortal  to  see  through 

it, 
When  once  she    has    mixed    up   her   infinite   me 

through  it. 
There  is  one  thing  she  owns  in  her  own  single 

right, 
It  is  native  and  genuine  —  namely,  her  spite  : 
Though,    when    acting   as    censor,    she    privately 

blows 
A  censor  of  vanity  'neath  her  own  nose." 

Here  Miranda  came  up,  and  said,  "  Phoebus  ! 
you  know 

That  the  infinite  Soul  has  its  infinite  woe, 

As  I  ought  to  know,  having  lived  cheek  by 
jowl, 

Since  the  day  I  was  born,  with  the  Infinite  Soul  ; 

I  myself  introduced,  I  myself,  I  alone. 

To  my  Land's  better  life  authors  solely  my  own. 

Who  the  sad  heart  of  earth  on  their  shoulders 
have  taken. 

Whose  works  sound  a  depth  by  Life's  quiet  un- 
shaken. 

Such  as  Shakspeare,  for  instance,  the  Bible,  and 
Bacon, 

Not  to  mention  my  own  works ;  Time's  nadir  is 
fleet. 

And,  as  for  myself,  I  'm  quite  out  of  conceit,"^ 


f 


294  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

"  Quite  out  of  conceit !  I  'm  enchanted  to  hear 
it," 
Cried  Apollo    aside,  "Who  'd  have  thought  she 

was  near  it  ? 
To  be  sure  one  is  apt  to  exhaust  those  commodities 
He  uses  too  fast,  yet  in  this  case  as  odd  it  is 
As  if  Neptune  should  say  to  his  turbots  and  whit- 
ings, 
'  I  'm  as  much  out  of  salt  as  Miranda's  own  writ- 
ings,' 
(Which,  as  she  in  her  own  happy  manner  has  said, 
Sound  a  depth,  for  't  is  one  of  the  functions  of 

lead.) 
She  often  has  asked  me  if  I  could  not  find 
A  place  somewhere  near  me  that  suited  her  mind ; 
I  know  but  a  single  one  vacant,  which  she, 
With  her  rare  talent  that  way,  would  fit  to  a  T. 
And  it  would  not  imply  any  pause  or  cessation 
In  the  work  she  esteems  her  peculiar  vocation,  — 
She  may  enter  on  duty  to-day,  if  she  chooses. 
And  remain  Tiring-woman  for  life  to  the  Muses." 

(Miranda  meanwhile  has  succeeded  in  driving 
Up  into  a  corner,  in  spite  of  their  striving, 
A  small  flock  of  terrified  victims,  and  there, 
With  an  I-turn-the-crank-of-the-Universe  air 
And  a  tone  which,  at  least  to  wy/  fancy,  appears 
Not  so  much  to  be  entering  as  boxing  your  ears, 


A   FABLE  FOR   THE   CRITICS.  295 

Is  unfolding  a  tale  (of  herself,  I  surmise,) 

For  't  is  dotted  as  thick  as  a  peacock's  with  I's.) 

Apropos  of  Miranda,  I  '11  rest  on  my  oars 

And  drift  through  a  trifling  digression  on  bores. 

For,  though  not  wearing  ear-rings  iji  more  majorum, 

Our  ears  are  kept  bored  just  as  if  we  still  wore  'em. 

There  was  one  feudal  custom  worth  keeping,  at 

least. 
Roasted  bores  made  a  part  of  each  well-ordered 

feast. 
And  of  all  quiet  pleasures  the  very  7ie  phis 
Was  in  hunting  wild  bores  as  the  tame  ones  hunt 

us. 
Archaeologians,  I  know,  who  have  personal  fears 
Of  this  wise  application  of  hounds  and  of  spears. 
Have  tried  to  make  out,  with  a  zeal  more  than 

wonted, 
'T  was  a  kind  of  wild  swine  that  our  ancestors 

hunted ; 
But   I  '11  never  believe  that  the  age  which  has 

strewn 
Europe  o'er  with  cathedrals,  and  otherwise  shown 
That  it  knew  what  was  what,  could  by  chance  not 

have  known, 
(Spending,  too,  its  chief  time  with  its  buff  on,  no 

doubt,) 
Which  beast  't  would  improve  the  world  most  to 

thin  out. 


296  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

I  divide  bores  myself,  in  the  manner  of  rifles, 
Into  two  great  divisions,  regardless  of  trifles  ;  — 
There  's  your  smooth-bore  and  screw-bore,  who  do 

not  much  vary 
In  the  weight  of  cold  lead  they  respectively  carry. 
The  smooth-bore  is  one  in  whose  essence  the  mind 
Not  a  corner  nor  cranny  to  cling  by  can  find ; 
You  feel  as  in  nightmares  sometimes,  when  you 

slip 
Down  a  steep  slated  roof  where  there  's  nothing 

to  grip. 
You  slide  and  you  slide,  the  blank  horror  increases, 
You  had  rather  by  far  be  at  once  smashed  to  pieces. 
You  fancy  a  whirlpool  below  white  and  frothing. 
And  finally  drop  off  and  light  upon  —  nothing. 
The  screw-bore  has  twists  in  him,  faint  predilec- 
tions 
For  going  just  wrong  in  the  tritest  directions  ; 
When  he  's  wrong  he  is  flat,  when  he  's  right  he 

can't  show  it. 
He  '11  tell  you  what  Snooks  said  about  the  new 

poet,^ 
Or   how    Fogrum    was    outraged    by    Tennyson's 

Princess ; 
He  has  spent  all  his  spare  time  and  intellect  since 

his 

1  (If  you  call  Snooks  an  owl,  he  will  show  by  his  looks 
That  he  's  morally  certain  you  're  jealous  of  Snooks.) 


A   FABLE  FOR    2 HE   CRITICS.  297 

Birth  in  perusing,  on  each  art  and  science, 

Just  the  books  in  which  no  one  puts  any  reliance, 

And  though  nemo,  we  're  told,  horis  omnibus  sapit, 

The  rule  will  not  fit  him,  however  you  shape  it, 

For  he  has  a  perennial  foison  of  sappiness  ; 

He  has  just  enough  force  to  spoil  half  your  day's 

happiness, 
And  to  make  him  a  sort  of  mosquito  to  be  with, 
But  just  not  enough  to  dispute  or  agree  with. 

These  sketches  I  made  (not  to  be  too  explicit) 
From  two  honest  fellows  who  made  me  a  visit, 
And  broke,  like  the  tale  of  the  Bear  and  the  Fiddle, 
My  reflections  on  Halleck  short  off  by  the  middle  ; 
I  shall  not  now  go  into  the  subject  more  deeply, 
For  I  notice  that  some  of  my  readers  look  sleep'ly, 
I  will  barely  remark  that,  'mongst  civilized  nations, 
There    's    none    that    displays    more    exemplary 

patience 
Under  all  sorts  of  boring,  at  all  sorts  of  hours. 
From  all  sorts  of  desperate  persons,  than  ours. 
Not  to  speak  of  our  papers,  our  State  legislatures, 
And  other  such  trials  for  sensitive  natures. 
Just  look  for  a  moment  at  Congress,  —  appalled. 
My    fancy    shrinks    back    from    the    phantom  it 

called ; 
Why,  there  's  scarcely  a  member   unworthy  to 

frown 


298  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

'Neath  what  Fourier  nicknames  the  Boreal  crown ; 
Only  think  what  that  infinite  bore-pow'r  could  do 
If  applied  with  a  utilitarian  view  ; 
Suppose,  for  example,  we  shipped  it  with  care 
To  Sahara's  great  desert  and  let  it  bore  there, 
If  they  held  one  short  session  and  did  nothing  else. 
They  'd  fill  the  whole  waste  with  Artesian  wells. 
But  't  is  time  now  with  pen  phonographic  to  follow 
Through  some  more  of  his  sketches  our  laughing 
Apollo  :  — 

"  There  comes  Harry  Franco,  and,  as  he  draws 
near, 
You  find  that  's  a  smile  which  you  took  for  a  sneer  ; 
One  half  of  him  contradicts  t'  other,  his  wont 
Is  to  say  very  sharp  things  and  do  very  blunt ; 
His  manner  's  as  hard  as  his  feelings  are  tender. 
And  a  sortie  he  '11  make  when  he  means  to  sur- 
render ; 
He  's  in  joke  half  the  time  when  he  seems  to  be 

sternest, 
When    he  seems  to  be   joking,  be  sure  he  's  in 

earnest  ; 
He  has  common  sense  in  away  that  's  uncommon. 
Hates  humbug  and  cant,  loves  his  friends  like  a 

woman, 
Builds  his  dislikes  of  cards  and  his  friendships  of  oak, 
Loves  a  prejudice  better  than  aught  but  a  joke, 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  299 

Is    half   upright   Quaker,    half   downright    Come- 

outer, 
Loves  Freedom  too  well  to  go  stark  mad  about 

her, 
Quite  artless  himself  is  a  lover  of  Art, 
Shuts  you  out  of  his  secrets  and  into  his  heart, 
And  though  not  a  poet,  yet  all  must  admire 
In  his  letters  of  Pinto  his  skill  on  the  liar. 

"  There  comes  Poe  with  his  raven,  like  Barnaby 

Rudge, 
Three-fifths  of   him  genius   and   two-fifths   sheer 

fudge, 
Who  talks  like  a  book  of  iambs  and  pentameters, 
In  a  way  to  make  people  of  common-sense  damn 

metres. 
Who  has  written  some  things  quite  the   best  of 

their  kind, 
But  the  heart  somehow  seems  all  squeezed  out  by 

the  mind, 
Who  —  but  hey-day  !     What  's  this  ?     Messieurs 

Mathews  and  Poe, 
You  must  n't  fling  mud-balls  at  Longfellow  so, 
Does    it  make  a  man  worse  that  his  character  's 

such 
As  to  make  his  friends  love  him   (as   you  think) 

too  much  ? 
Why,  there  is  not  a  bard  at  this  moment  alive 


300  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

More   willing   than    he   that    his   fellows    should 

thrive ; 
While  you  are  abusing  him  thus,  even  now 
He  would  help  either  one  of  you  out  of  a  slough  ; 
You  may  say  that  he  's  smooth  and  all  that  till 

you  're  hoarse, 
But  remember  that  elegance  also  is  force  ; 
After  polishing  granite  as  much  as  you  will, 
The  heart  keeps  its  tough  old  persistency  still  ; 
Deduct  all  you  can  that  still  keeps  you  at  bay,  — 
Why,   he  '11   live  till   men  weary  of   Collins  and 

Gray; 
I  'm  not  over-fond  of  Greek  metres  in  English, 
To  me  rhyme  's  a  gain,  so  it  be  not  too  jinglish. 
And  your  modern  hexameter  verses  are  no  more 
Like    Greek   ones    than    sleek    Mr.    Pope  is  like 

Homer  ; 
As  the  roar  of  the  sea  to  the  coo  of  a  pigeon  is. 
So,  compared  to  your  moderns,  sounds  old  Mele- 

sigenes ; 
I  may  be  too  partial,  the  reason,  perhaps,  o't  is 
That  I  've  heard  the  old  blind  man  recite  his  own 

rhapsodies. 
And  my  ear  with  that  music  impregnate  may  be. 
Like  the  poor  exiled  shell  with  the   soul   of  the 

sea. 
Or  as  one  can't  bear  Strauss  when  his  nature  is 

cloven 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE  CRFFICS.  301 

To  its  deeps  within  deeps  by  the  stroke   of  Bee- 
thoven ; 
But,  set  that  aside,  and  't  is  truth  that  I  speak. 
Had  Theocritus  written  in  English,  not  Greek, 
I   believe  that   his    exquisite   sense  would  scarce 

change  a  line 
In   that  rare,  tender,  virgin-like  pastoral  Evange- 
line. 
That  's  not  ancient  nor  modern,  its  place  is  apart 
Where  time  has  no  sway,  in  the  realm  of   pure 

Art, 
'T  is  a  shrine  of  retreat  from  Earth's  hubbub  and 

strife 
As  quiet  and  chaste  as  the  author's  own  life. 

"  There  comes  Philothea,  her  face  all  a-glow, 
She  has  just  been  dividing  some  poor  creature's 

woe. 
And  can't  tell  which  pleases  her  most,  to  relieve 
His  want,  or  his  story  to  hear  and  believe ; 
No  doubt  against  many  deep  griefs  she  prevails. 
For  her  ear  is  the  refuge  of  destitute  tales  ; 
She    knows    well    that    silence    is    sorrow's    best 

food, 
And  that  talking  draws  off  from  the  heart  its  black 

blood, 
So  she  '11  listen  with  patience  and  let  you  unfold 
Your  bundle  of  rags  as  't  were  pure  cloth  of  gold, 


302  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Which,  indeed,  it   all  turns  to  as  soon  as  she  's 

touched  it, 
And,    (to    borrow   a   phrase   from    the   nursery,) 

miic/ud  it. 
She  has  such  a  musical  taste,  she  will  go 
Any  distance  to  hear  one  who  draws  a  long  bow  ; 
She  will  swallow  a  wonder   by  mere  might  and 

main 
And  thinks  it  geometry's  fault  if  she  's  fain 
To  consider  things  flat,  inasmuch  as  they  're  plain ; 
Facts  with  her  are  accomplished,  as  Frenchmen 

would  say. 
They  will  prove  all  she  wishes  them  to  —  either 

way. 
And,  as  fact  lies  on  this  side  or  that,  we  must  try, 
If  we  're  seeking  the  truth,  to  find  where  it  don't 

lie  ; 
I  was  telling  her  once  of  a  marvellous  aloe 
That  for  thousands  of  years  had  looked  spindling 

and  sallow, 
And,  though  nursed  by  the  fruitfullest  powers  of 

mud. 
Had  never  vouchsafed  e'en  so  much  as  a  bud, 
Till  its  owner  remarked,  as  a  sailor,  you  know, 
Often  will  in  a  calm,  that  it  never  would  blow. 
For  he  wished  to  exhibit  the  plant,  and  designed 
That  its  blowing  should   help  him  in  raising  the 

wind  ; 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE    CRITICS.  303 

At  last  it  was  told  him  that  if  he  should  water 
Its  roots  with  the  blood  of  his  unmarried  daughter, 
(Who  was  born,  as  her  mother,  a  Calvinist  said, 
With  a  Baxter's  effectual  call  on  her  head,) 
It  would  blow  as  the  obstinate  breeze  did  when 

by  a 
Like  decree  of  her  father  died  Iphigenia ; 
At  first  he  declared  he  himself  would  be  blowed 
Ere    his    conscience   with    such    a  foul  crime  he 

would  load, 
But  the  thought,  coming  oft,  grew  less  dark  than 

before. 
And  he  mused,  as  each  creditor  knocked  at  his 

door, 
If  this  were  but  done  they  would  dun  me  no  more ; 
I  told  Philothea  his  struggles  and  doubts. 
And  how  he  considered  the  ins  and  the  outs 
Of  the  visions  he  had,  and  the  dreadful  dyspepsy, 
How  he  went  to  the  seer  that  lives  at  Po'keepsie, 
How  the  seer  advised  him  to  sleep  on  it  first 
And  to  read  his  big  volume  in  case  of  the  worst. 
And  further  advised  he  should  pay  him  five  dollars 
For  writing  ^xim,  '^VLXn,  on  his  wristbands  and 

collars ; 
Three  years  and  ten  days  these  dark  words  he  had 

studied 
When  the  daughter  was  missed,  and  the  aloe  had 

budded ; 


304  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

I  told  how  he  watched  it  grow  large  and  more  large, 
And  wondered  how  much  for  the  show  he  should 

charge,  — 
She  had  listened  with  utter  indifference  to  this,  till 
I  told  how  it  bloomed,  and  discharging  its  pistil 
With  an  aim  the  Eumenides  dictated,  shot 
The  botanical  filicide  dead  on  the  spot ; 
It  had  blown,  but  he  reaped  not  his  horrible  gains, 
For  it  blew  with  such  force  as  to  blow  out   his 

brains. 
And  the  crime  was  blown  also,  because  on  the  wad, 
Which  was  paper,  was  writ  'Visitation  of  God,' 
As  well  as  a  thrilling  account  of  the  deed 
Which  the  coroner  kindly  allowed  me  to  read. 

"Well,  my  friend  took  this  story  up  just,  to  be 
sure, 

As  one  might  a  poor  foundling  that  's  laid  at  one's 
door ; 

She  combed  it  and  washed  it  and  clothed  it  and 
fed  it. 

And  as  if  't  were  her  own  child  most  tenderly  bred 
it, 

Laid  the  scene  (of  the  legend,  I  mean,)  far  away  a- 

-mong  the  green  vales  underneath  Himalaya. 

And  by  artist-like  touches,  laid  on  here  and  there, 

Made  the  whole  thing  so  touching,  I  frankly  de- 
clare 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  305 

I  have  read  it  all  thrice,  and,  perhaps  I  am  weak, 
But  I  found  every  time  there  were  tears  on  my 
cheek. 

"The  pole,  science  tells  us,  the  magnet  controls, 
But  she  is  a  magnet  to  emigrant  Poles, 
And  folks  with  a  mission  that  nobody  knows. 
Throng  thickly  about  her  as  bees  round  a  rose  ; 
She  can  fill  up  the  carets  in  such,  make  their  scope 
Converge  to  some  focus  of  rational  hope. 
And,  with  sympathies  fresh  as  the  morning,  their 

gall 
Can  transmute  into  honey,  —  but  this  is  not  all; 
Not  only  for  those  she  has  solace,  oh,  say. 
Vice's  desperate  nursling  adrift  in  Broadway, 
Who  clingest,  with  all  that  is  left  of  thee  human, 
To  the  last  slender  spar  from  the  wreck  of  the 

woman. 
Hast  thou  not  found  one  shore  where  those  tired 

drooping  feet 
Could  reach  firm  mother-earth,  one  full  heart  on 

whose  beat 
The  soothed  head  in  silence  reposing  could  hear 
The  chimes   of  far  childhood  throb  thick  on  the 

ear? 
Ah,  there  's  many  a  beam  from  the  fountain  of  day 
That  to    reach    us   unclouded,  must   pass,  on   its 

way, 


306  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Through  the  soul  of  a  woman,  and  hers  is  wide  ope 
To  the  influence  of  Heaven  as  the  blue  eyes  of 

Hope  ; 
Yes,  a  great  soul  is  hers,  one  that  dares  to  go  in 
To  the  prison,  the  slave-hut,  the  alleys  of  sin, 
And  to  bring  into  each,  or  to  find  there,  some  line 
Of  the  never  completely  out-trampled  divine  ; 
If  her  heart  at  high  floods  swamps  her  brain  now 

and  then, 
'T  is  but  richer  for  that  when  the  tide  ebbs  agen, 
As,  after  old  Nile  has  subsided,  his  plain 
Overflows  with  a  second  broad  deluge  of  grain  ; 
What  a  wealth  would  it  bring  to  the  narrow  and 

sour 
Could  they  be  as  a  Child  but  for  one  little  hour ! 

"  What !  Irving  ?  thrice  welcome,  warm  heart 
and  fine  brain, 

You  bring  back  the  happiest  spirit  from  Spain, 

And  the  gravest  sweet  humor,  that  ever  were 
there 

Since  Cervantes  met  death  in  his  gentle  despair ; 

Nay,  don't  be  embarrassed,  nor  look  so  beseech- 
ing,— 

I  sha'n't  run  directly  against  my  own  preaching, 

And,  having  just  laughed  at  their  Raphaels  and 
Dantes, 

Go  to  setting  you  up  beside  matchless  Cervantes ; 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE   CRITICS.  307 

But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly  feel, — 
To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele, 
Throw  in  all  of  Addison,  minus  the  chill, 
With  the  whole   of  that   partnership's  stock  and 

good  will, 
Mix  well,  and  while  stirring,  hum  o'er,  as  a  spell, 
The  fine  old  English  Gentleman,  simmer  it  well, 
Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking,  then  strain, 
That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain. 
Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it  receives 
From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down  through 

green  leaves. 
And  you  '11  find  a  choice  nature,  not  wholly  deserv- 
ing 
A  name  either  English  or  Yankee, — just  Irving. 

"  There  goes,  —  but  stet  nominis  timbra,  —  his 
name 

You  '11  be  glad  enough,  some  day  or  other,  to  claim, 

And  will  all  crowd  about  him  and  swear  that  you 
knew  him 

If  some  English  hack-critic  should  chance  to  re- 
view him  ; 

The  old  pore  OS  ante  ne  projiciatis 

Margaritas,  for  him  you  have  verified  gratis  ; 

What  matters  his  name  ?  Why,  it  may  be  Syl- 
vester, 

Judd,  Junior,  or  Junius,  Ulysses,  or  Nestor, 


308  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

For  aught  /  know  or  care  ;  't  is  enough  that  I  look 
On  the  author  of  '  Margaret,'  the  first  Yankee  book 
With  the  soul  of  Down  East  in  't,  and  things  far- 
ther East, 
As  far  as  the  threshold  of  morning,  at  least, 
Where  awaits  the  fair  dawn  of  the  simple  and  true. 
Of  the  day  that  comes  slowly  to  make  all  things 

new. 
'T   has  a  smack  of  pine  woods,  of  bare  field  and 

bleak  hill 
Such  as  only  the  breed  of  the  Mayflower  could  till. 
The  Puritan  's  shown  in  it,  tough  to  the  core, 
Such  as  prayed,  smiting  Agag   on   red   Marston 

moor ; 
With    an    unwilling    humor,    half-choked    by   the 

drouth 
In  brown  hollows  about  the  inhospitable  mouth  ; 
With  a  soul  full  of  poetry,  though  it  has  qualms 
About  finding  a  happiness  out  of  the  Psalms  ; 
Full   of   tenderness,  too,  though    it  shrinks  in  the 

dark. 
Hamadryad-like,  under  the  coarse,  shaggy  bark ; 
That  sees  visions,  knows  wrestlings  of  God  with 

the  Will, 
And  has  its  own  Sinais  and  thunderings  still."  — 
Here,  —  "Forgive  me,  Apollo,"  I  cried,  "while 

I  pour 
My  heart  out  to  my  birth-place  :  O,  loved  more 

and  more 


A    FABLE  FOR    THE    CRITICS.  309 

Dear  Baystate,  from  whose  rocky  bosom  thy  sons 
Should   suck  milk,  strong-will-giving,  brave,  such 

as  runs 
In  the  veins  of  old  Graylock, — who  is  it  that  dares 
Call  thee  pedler,  a  soul  wrapt  in  bank-books  and 

shares  ? 
It  is  false  !     She  's  a  Poet !  I  see,  as  I  write, 
Along  the  far  railroad  the  steam-snake  glide  white, 
The  cataract-throb  of  her  mill-hearts  I  hear. 
The  swift  strokes  of  trip-hammers  weary  my  ear, 
Sledges  ring  upon   anvils,  through  logs  the  saw 

screams, 
Blocks  swing  up  to  their  place,  beetles  drive  home 

the  beams  :  — 
It  is  songs  such  as  these  that  she  croons  to  the  din 
Of  her  fast-flying  shuttles,  year  out  and  year  in, 
While  from  earth's  farthest  corner  there  comes  not 

a  breeze 
But  wafts  her  the  buzz  of  her  gold-gleaning  bees  : 
What  though  those  horn  hands  have  as  yet  found 

small  time 
For  painting  and  sculpture  and  music  and  rhyme  ? 
These  will  come  in  due  order,  the  need  that  pressed 

sorest 
Was  to  vanquish  the  seasons,  the  ocean,  the  forest, 
To  bridle  and  harness  the  rivers,  the  steam. 
Making  that  whirl  her  mill-wheels,  this  tug  in  her 

team, 


3 10  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  vassalize  old  tyrant  Winter,  and  make 
Him  delve  surlily  for  her  on  river  and  lake  ;  — 
When  this  New  World  was  parted,  she  strove  not 

to  shirk 
Her  lot  in  the  heirdom,  the  tough,  silent  Work, 
The  hero-share  ever,  from  Herakles  down 
To  Odin,  the  Earth's  iron  sceptre  and  crown  ; 
Yes,  thou  dear,  noble  Mother  !  if  ever  men's  praise 
Could  be  claimed  for  creating  heroical  lays, 
Thou  hast  won  it ;  if  ever  the  laurel  divine 
Crowned    the   Maker  and    Builder,  that   glory  is 

thine ! 
Thy  songs  are  right  epic,  they  tell  how  this  rude 
Rock-rib  of  our  earth  here  was  tamed  and  subdued  ; 
Thou  hast  written  them  plain  on  the  face  of  the 

planet 
In  brave,  deathless  letters  of  iron  and  granite  ; 
Thou  hast  printed  them  deep  for  all  time ;  they  are 

set 
From  the  same  runic  type-fount  and  alphabet 
With  thy  stout  Berkshire  hills  and  the  arms  of  thy 

Bay,— 
They  are  staves  from  the  burly  old  Mayflower  lay. 
If  the  drones  of  the  Old  World,  in  querulous  ease, 
Ask  thy  Art   and  thy   Letters,  point  proudly  to 

these. 
Or,  if  they  deny  these  are  Letters  and  Art, 
Toil  on  with  the  same  old  invincible  heart ; 


A   FABLE   FOR    THE   ClUTICS.  311 

Thou  art  rearing   the   pedestal   broad-based  and 

grand 
Whereon  the  fair  shapes  of  the  Artist  shall  stand, 
And  creating,  through  labors  undaunted  and  long, 
The  true  theme  for  all  Sculpture  and  Painting  and 

Song! 

"But  my  good  mother  Baystate  wants  no  praise 

of  mine, 
She  learned  from  Jicr  mother  a  precept  divine 
About  something  that  butters  no  parsnips,  htr  forte 
In  another  direction  lies,  work  is  her  sport, 
(Though  she  '11  curtsey  and  set  her  cap  straight, 

that  she  will, 
If  you  talk  about  Plymouth  and  one  Bunker's  hill.) 
The  dear,  notable  goodwife !  by  this  time  of  night. 
Her  hearth  is  swept  clean,  and  her  fire  burning 

bright, 
And  she  sits  in  a  chair  (of  home  plan  and  make) 

rocking. 
Musing  much,  all  the  while,  as   she  darns   on  a 

stocking, 
Whether    turkeys   will    come    pretty   high    next 

Thanksgiving, 
Whether  flour  '11  be  so  dear,  for,  as  sure  as  she  's 

living, 
She  will  use  rye-and-injun  then,  whether  the  pig 
By  this  time  ain't  got  pretty  tolerable  big, 


312  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  whether  to  sell  it  outright  will  be  best, 

Or  to  smoke  hams  and  shoulders  and  salt  down 

the  rest,  — 
At  this   minute,   she  'd  swop  all  my  verses,   ah, 

cruel ! 
For  the  last  patent  stove  that  is  saving  of  fuel; 
So  I  '11  just  let  Apollo  go  on,  for  his  phiz 
Shows  I  've  kept  him  awaiting  too  long  as  it  is." 

"  If  our  friend,  there,  who  seems  a  reporter,  is 
through 

With  his  burst  of  emotion,  our  theme  we  '11  pur- 
sue," 

Said  Apollo  ;  some  smiled,  and,  indeed,  I  must 
own 

There  was  something  sarcastic,  perhaps,  in  his 
tone; — 

"There  's  Holmes,  who  is  matchless  among  you 
for  wit  ; 
A    Leyden-jar    always   full-charged,    from    which 

flit 
The  electrical  tingles  of  hit  after  hit ; 
In  long  poems  't  is  painful  sometimes  and  invites 
A  thought  of  the  way  the  new  Telegraph  writes. 
Which  pricks  down  its  little  sharp  sentences  spite- 
fully 
As  if  you  got  more  than  you  'd  title  to  rightfully, 


A   FABLE  FOR   THE   CRITICS.  313 

And  if  it  were  hoping  its  wild  father  Lightning 
Would  flame  in  for  a  second  and  give  you  a  fright- 

'ning. 
He  has  perfect  sway  of  what  /call  a  sham  metre, 
But  many  admire  it,  the  English  hexameter. 
And    Campbell,    I   think,   wrote    most   commonly 

worse, 
With  less  nerve,  swing,  and  fire  in  the  same  kind 

of  verse, 
Nor  e'er  achieved  aught  in  't  so  worthy  of  praise 
As  the  tribute  of  Holmes  to  the  grand  Marseillaise. 
You    went    crazy   last   year   over    Bulwer's    New 

Timon  ;  — 
Why,  if  B.,  to  the  day  of  his  dying,  should  rhyme 

on, 
Heaping  verses  on  verses  and  tomes  upon  tomes, 
He  could  ne'er  reach  the  best  point  and  vigor  of 

Holmes. 
His  are  just  the  fine  hands,  too,  to  weave  you  a 

lyric 
Full  of  fancy,  fun,  feeling,  or  spiced  with  satiric 
In  so  kindly  a  measure,  that  nobody  knows 
What  to  do  but  e'en  join  in  the  laugh,  friends  and 

foes. 

"  There  is  Lowell,  who  's  striving  Parnassus  to 
climb 
With   a  whole    bale  of    isms  tied    together   with 
rhyme, 


314  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  brambles  and 
boulders, 

But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on  his  shoul- 
ders. 

The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reach- 
ing 

Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  singing  and 
preaching ; 

His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would  ring  pretty- 
well, 

But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of  the  shell, 

And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Mcthusalem, 

At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  new  Jerusalem. 

"  There  goes  Halleck,  whose  Fanny  's  a  pseudo 

Don  Juan, 
With   the  wickedness  out  that  gave   salt  to   the 

true  one. 
He  's  a  wit,  though,  I  hear,  of  the  very  first  order, 
And  once  made  a  pun  on  the  words  soft  Recorder; 
More  than  this,  he  's  a  very  great  poet,  I  'm  told. 
And  has  had  his  works  published   in  crimson   and 

gold. 
With  something  they  call  '  Illustrations,'  to  wit, 
Like  those  with  which  Chapman  obscured  Holy 

Writ,i 
Which  are  said  to  illustrate,  because,  as  I  view  it, 
Like  Incus  a  no}i,  they  precisely  don't  do  it ; 

1  (Cuts  rightly  called  wooden,  as  all  must  admit.) 


A   FABLE  FOR   THE   CRITICS.  315 

Let  a  man  who  can  write  what  himself  understands 
Keep  clear,  if  he  can,  of  designing  men's  hands. 
Who  bury  the  sense,  if  there  's  any  worth  having. 
And  then  very  honestly  call  it  engraving. 
But,  to  quit  badinage,  which  there  is  n't  much  wit 

in, 
No  doubt  Halleck  's  better  than  all  he  has  written  ; 
In  his  verse  a  clear  glimpse  you  will  frequently 

find, 
If  not  of  a  great,  of  a  fortunate  mind, 
Which  contrives  to  be  true  to  its  natural  loves 
In  a  world  of  back-offices,  ledgers  and  stoves. 
When  his  heart  breaks  away  from  the  brokers  and 

banks. 
And  kneels  in  its  own  private  shrine  to  give  thanks, 
There  's  a  genial  manliness  in  him  that  earns 
Our    sincerest    respect,    (read,    for    instance,    his 

"  Burns,") 
And  we  x:an't  but  regret   (seek  excuse  where  we 

may) 
That  so  much  of  a  man  has  been  peddled  away. 

"But  what  's  that .'  a  mass-meeting  .''     No,  there 
come  in  lots 
The  American  Disraelis,  Bulwers,  and  Scotts, 
And  in  short  the  American  everything-elses, 
Each  charging  the   others  with  envies  and  jeal- 
ousies ;  — 


3l6  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

By  the  way,  't  is  a  fact  that  displays  what  profu- 
sions 
Of    all    kinds    of    greatness    bless    free    institu- 
tions, 
That  while  the   Old  World  has  produced  barely 

eight 
Of  such  poets  as  all  men  agree  to  call  great, 
And  of  other  great  characters  hardly  a  score, 
(One  might  safely  say  less  than  that  rather  than 

more,) 
With  you  every  year  a  whole  crop  is  begotten, 
They  're  as  much  of  a  staple  as  corn,  or  as  cotton ; 
Why,  there  's  scarcely  a  huddle  of  log-huts  and 

shanties 
That  has  not  brought  forth  its  own  Miltons   and 

Dantes  ; 
I  myself  know  ten  Byrons,   one  Coleridge,  three 

Shelleys, 
Two  Raphaels,  six  Titians,  (I  think)  one^Apelles, 
Leonardos  and  Rubenses  plenty  as  lichens. 
One  (but  that  one  is  plenty)  American  Dickens, 
A  whole  flock  of  Lambs,  any  number  of  Tenny- 

sons,  — 
In    short,    if   a    man    has    the    luck   to  have  any 

sons. 
He  may  feel  pretty  certain  that  one  out  of  twain 
Will  be  some  very  great  person  over  again. 
There  is  one  inconvenience  in  all  this  which  lies 


.-/    FABLE   FOR    THE    CRITICS.  317 

In  the  fact  that  by  contrast  we  estimate  size/ 

And,  when  there  are  none  except  Titans,  great 
stature 

Is  only  a  simple  proceeding  of  nature. 

What  puff  the  strained  sails  of  your  praise  shall 
you  furl  at,  if 

The  calmest  degree  that  you  know  is  superlativ^e  ? 

At  Rome,  all  whom  Charon  took  into  his  wherry 
must, 

As  a  matter  of  course,  be  well  issimnsQd  and 
ejTimusQd, 

A  Greek,  too,  could  feel,  while  in  that  famous  boat 
he  tost, 

That  his  friends  would  take  care  he  was  «crro,-ed 
and  wruroj^ed, 

And  formerly  we,  as  through  grave-yards  we  past, 

Thought  the  world  went  from  bad  to  worse  fear- 
fully fast  ; 

Let  us  glance  for  a  moment,  't  is  well  worth  the 
pains. 

And  note  what  an  average  grave-yard  contains  ; 

There  lie  levellers  levelled,  duns  done  up  them- 
selves, 

There  are  booksellers  finally  laid  on  their  shelves, 

1  That  is  in  most  cases  we  do,  but  not  all, 

Past  a  doubt,  there  are  men  who  are  innatel}'  small, 
Such  as  Blank,  who,  without  being  'minished  a  tittle, 
Might  stand  for  a  type  of  the  Absolute  Little. 


3l8  LOU- ELL'S  POEMS. 

Horizontally  there  lie  upright  politicians, 
Dose-a-dose   with   their   patients    sleep    faultless 

physicians, 
There  are  slave-drivers  quietly  whipt  under-ground, 
There  book-binders,  done  up   in  boards,  are   fast 

bound. 
There    card-players    wait    till    the    last    trump   be 

played, 
There  all  the  choice  spirits  get  finally  laid. 
There  the  babe  that  's  unborn  is  supplied  with  a 

berth. 
There  men  without  legs  get  their  six  feet  of  earth, 
There  lawyers  repose,  each  wrapt  up  in  his  case. 
There  seekers  of  office  are  sure  of  a  place. 
There  defendant  and  plaintiff  get  equally  cast. 
There  shoemakers  quietly  stick  to  the  last, 
There  brokers  at  length  become  silent  as  stocks. 
There    stage-drivers    sleep  without  quitting  their 

box, 
And  so  forth  and  so  forth  and  so  forth  and  so  on, 
With  this  kind  of  stuff  one  might  endlessly  go  on ; 
To  come  to  the  point,  I  may  safely  assert  you 
Will  find  in  each  yard  every  cardinal  virtue  ;  ^ 
Each  has  six  truest  patriots  :  four  discoverers   of 

ether, 
Who  never  had  thought  on  't  nor  mentioned  it 

either  : 

1  (And  at  this  just  conclusion  will  surely  arrive, 

That  the  goodness  of  earth  is  more  dead  than  alive.) 


A    FABLE   FOR   THE   CRITICS.  319 

Ten  poets,  the  greatest  who  ever  wrote  rhyme : 
Two  hundred  and  forty  first  men  of  their  time  : 
One  person  whose  portrait  just  gave  the  least  hint 
Its  original  had  a  most  horrible  squint  : 
One  critic,  most  (what  do  they  call  it  ?)  reflective, 
Who  never  had  used  the  phrase  ob-  or  subjective  : 
Forty  fathers  of  Freedom,  of  whom  twenty  bred 
Their    sons   for  the  rice-swamps,   at    so    much   a 

head. 
And  their  daughters  for — faugh!  thirty  mothers 

of  Gracchi : 
Non-resistants  who  gave  many  a  spiritual  black- 
eye  : 
Eight  true  friends  of  their  kind,  one  of  whom  was 

a  jailor : 
Four  captains  almost  as  astounding  as  Taylor : 
Two  dozen  of  Italy's  exiles  who  shoot  us  his 
Kaisership  daily,  stern  pen-and-ink  Brutuses, 
Who,  in  Yankee  back-parlors,  with  crucified  smile,^ 
Mount  serenely  their  country's  funereal  pile  : 
Ninety-nine  Irish  heroes,  ferocious  rebellers 
'Gainst  the  Saxon  in  cis-marine  garrets  and  cellars. 
Who  shake  their  dread  fists  o'er  the  sea  and  all 

that,  — 
As  long  as  a  copper  drops  into  the  hat  : 
Nine  hundred  Teutonic  republicans  stark 
From  Vaterland's  battles  just  won — in  the  Park, 

'  Not  forgetting  their  tea  and  their  toast,  though,  the  while. 


320  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Who  the  happy  profession  of  martyrdom  take 
Whenever  it  gives  them  a  chance  at  a  steak  : 
Sixty-two    second    Washingtons  :     two    or    three 

Jacksons : 
And  so  many  everythings  else  that  it  racks  one's 
Poor  memory  too  much  to  continue  the  list, 
Especially  now  they  no  longer  exist ;  — 
I    would    merely  observe   that   you    've  taken  to 

giving 
The  puffs  that  belong  to  the  dead  to  the  living, 
And  that   somehow  your  trump-of-contemporary- 

doom's  tones 
Is  tuned  after  old  dedications  and  tombstones."  — 

Here  the  critic  came  in  and  a  thistle  pre- 
sented^— 

From  a  frown  to  a  smile  the  god's  features  re- 
lented, 

As  he  stared  at  his  envoy,  who,  swelling  with 
pride, 

To  the  god's  asking  look,  nothing  daunted,  re- 
plied, 

''  You  're  surprised,  I  suppose,  I  was  absent  so 
long. 

But  your  godship  respecting  the  lilies  was  wrong ; 


^  Turn  back  now  to  page  —  goodness  only  knows  what, 
And  take  a  fresh  hold  on  the  thread  of  my  plot. 


A   FABLE  FOR   THE   CRITICS.  32 1 

I  hunted  the  garden  from  one  end  to  t'  other, 
And  got  no  reward  but  vexation  and  bother, 
Till,  tossed  out  with  weeds  in  a  corner  to  wither, 
This    one  lily  I  found  and  made  haste  to   bring 
hither." 

"  Did   he   think    I    had   given    him  a   book  to 

review  ? 
I  ought  to  have  known  what  the  fellow  would  do," 
Muttered  Phoebus  aside,  "  for  a  thistle  will  pass 
Beyond  doubt  for  the  queen  of  all  flowers  with  an 

ass  ; 
He   has  chosen  in  just    the    same  way  as  he  'd 

choose 
His  specimens  out  of  the  books  he  reviews  ; 
And  now,  as  this  offers  an  excellent  text, 
I  '11  give  'em  some  brief  hints  on  criticism  next." 
So,  musing  a  moment,  he  turned  to  the  crowd. 
And,  clearing  his  voice,  spoke  as  follows  aloud,  — 

"My  friends,  in  the  happier  days  of  the  muse. 
We  were  luckily  free  from  such  things  as  reviews; 
Then  naught  came  between  with  its  fog  to  make 

clearer 
The  heart  of  the  poet  to  that  of  his  hearer ; 
Then  the  poet  brought  heaven  to  the  people,  and 

they 
Felt  that  they,  too,  were  poets  in  hearing  his  lay ; 


322  LO IV ELL'S  POEMS. 

Then  the  poet  was  prophet,  the  past  in  his  soul 
Pre-createcl  the  future,  both  parts  of  one  whole  ; 
Then  for  him  there  was  nothing  too  great  or  too 

small, 
For  one  natural  deity  sanctified  all ; 
Then    the    bard    owned    no  clipper  and  meter  of 

moods 
Save  the  spirit  of  silence  that  hovers  and  broods 
O'er  the  seas  and  the  mountains,  the  rivers  and 

woods ; 
He  asked  not  earth's  verdict,  forgetting  the  clods. 
His  soul  soared  and  sang  to  an  audience  of  gods  ; 
'T  was   for  them  that  he   measured  the  thought 

and  the  line, 
And  shaped  for  their  vision  the  perfect  design. 
With  as  glorious  a  foresight,  a  balance  as  true. 
As  swung  out  the  worlds  in  the  infinite  blue ; 
Then  a  glory  and  greatness  invested  man's  heart. 
The  universal,  which  now  stands  estranged  and 

apart, 
In  the  free  individual  moulded,  was  Art ; 
Then  the  forms  of  the  Artist  seemed  thrilled  with 

desire 
For  something,  as  yet  unattained,  fuller,  higher, 
As    once    with    her   lips,    lifted    hands,  and  eyes 

listening. 
And  her  whole  upward  soul   in  her  countenance 

glistening, 


A    FABLE   FOR    THE   CRITICS.  323 

Eurydice  stood  ^ — like  a  beacon  unfired, 

Which,  once  touched  with  flame,  will  leap  heav'n- 

ward  inspired  — 
And  waited  with  answering  kindle  to  mark 
The  first  gleam  of  Orpheus  that  pained  the  red 

Dark; 
Then    painting,   song,   sculpture,   did    more    than 

relieve 
The  need  that  men  feel  to  create  and  believe, 
And  as,  in  all  beauty,  who  listens  with  love, 
Hears   these  words  oft   repeated  —  'beyond   and 

above,' 
So  these  seemed  to  be  but  the  visible  sign 
Of  the  grasp  of  the  soul  after  things  more  divine  ; 
They  were  ladders  the  Artist  erected  to  climb 
O'er  the  narrow  horizon  of  space  and  of  time, 
And  we  see  there  the  footsteps  by  which  men  had 

gained 
To  the  one  rapturous  glimpse  of  the  never-attained. 
As  shepherds  could  erst  sometimes  trace  in  the  sod 
The  last  spurning  print  of  a  sky-cleaving  god. 

"  But  now,  on  the  poet's  dis-privacied  moods 
With  do  this  and  do  that  the  pert  critic  intrudes; 
While  he  thinks  he   's  been  barely  fulfilling  his 

duty 
To  interpret  'twixt  men  and  their  own  sense  of 

beauty. 


324  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  has  striven,   while  others  sought    honor   or 

pelf, 
To  make  his  kind  happy  as  he  was  himself. 
He  finds  he  's  been  guilty  of  horrid  offences 
In    all   kinds    of   moods,   numbers,    genders,    and 

tenses ; 
He  's  been  ob  and  j-z/^^-jective,  what  Kettle  calls 

Pot, 
Precisely,  at  all  events,  what  he  ought  not. 
You  have  done  this,   says   one    judge;    done  that, 

says  another ; 
You  should  have  done  this,  grumbles  one  ;  that,  says 

t'  other ; 
Never    mind   what    he    touches,    one  shrieks  out 

Taboo  ! 
And  while  he  is  wondering  what  he  shall  do, 
Since  each  suggests  opposite  topics  for  song, 
They  all  shout  together  jw/  're  right!  or  you  're 

wrong  ! 

"Nature  fits  all  her  children  with  something  to 
.do. 
He  who  would  write  and  can't  write,  can   surely 

review. 
Can  set  up  a  small  booth  as  critic  and  sell  us  his 
Petty  conceit  and  his  pettier  jealousies  ; 
Thus  a  lawyer's  apprentice,  just  out  of  his  teens, 
Will  do  for  the  Jeffrey  of  six  magazines ; 


A  FABLE  FOR    THE   CRITICS.  325 

Having  read  Johnson's    lives    of    the   poets   half 

through, 

There  's  nothing  on  earth  he  's  not  competent  to; 

He   reviews    with   as   much    nonchalance   as    he 

« 

whistles,  — 

He  goes  through  a  book  and  just  picks  out  the 

thistles, 
It  matters  not  whether  he  blame  or  commend, 
If  he  's  bad  as  a  foe,  he  's  far  worse  as  a  friend ; 
Let  an  author  but   write  what  's  above  his  poor 

scope, 
And  he  '11  go  to  work  gravely  and  twist  up  a  rope, 
And,  inviting  the  world  to  see  punishment  done. 
Hang  himself  up  to  bleach  in  the  wind  and  the 

sun  ; 
'T  is  delightful  to  see,  when  a  man  comes  along 
Who  has  any  thing  in  him  peculiar  and  strong, 
Every  cockboat  that  swims  clear  its  fierce  (pop-) 

gundeck  at  him 
And    make   as    he    passes  its  ludicrous    Peck    at 
him,"  — 

Here    Miranda    came    up   and    began,    "As    to 
that,"  — 
Apollo  at  once  seized  his  gloves,  cane,  and  hat. 
And,  seeing  the  place  getting  rapidly  cleared, 
I,    too,    snatched   my   notes  and  forthwith   disap- 
peared. 


THE   VISION    OF   SIR   LAUNFAL. 


PRELUDE    TO    PART    FIRST. 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list. 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay  ; 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme. 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie  ; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not ; 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies  ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies  ; 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives ; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite  ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea. 
326 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR   LA  UNFA L.  327 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us  ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in ; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold  ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  earn  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking  : 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
There  is  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
And  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen. 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  grasping  blindly  above  it  for  light. 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers  ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green. 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 


328  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 
Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings. 
And  the  heart   in  her  dumb   breast  flutters  and 

sings  ; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 

Comes  flooding  back,  with  a  ripply  cheer, 
Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay  ; 

Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 

We  are  happy  now  because  God  so  wills  it  ; 

No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 

'T  is    enough    for   us    now   that    the    leaves    are 
green  ; 

We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 

How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell  ; 

We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  know- 
ing 

That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 

That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flow- 
ing, 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L.         329 

That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack  ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer. 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving  ; 
'T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue, — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living  : 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake  ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed. 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth. 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth. 

Like  burnt-cut  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ? 


330  LOWELL  S  POEMS. 


PART    FIRST. 
I. 

"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail. 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head. 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  \dsion  flew. 

ir. 
The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes. 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees, 
The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray ; 
'T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  Xorth  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be. 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree  ; 


THE    VIS  JO  X   OF  SIR   LAUXFAL.         33 1 

Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 

But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied  ; 

She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 

Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 

Stretched  left  and  right, 

Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight  ; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

III. 
The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long. 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf, 

Had  cast  them  forth  :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf. 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  unscarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 

IV. 

It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 

And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 
Only  the  castle  moodily 


332  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 
The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 
Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 

V. 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome 
gate, 

He  was  ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate  ; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came  ; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill. 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  did  shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall  ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature. 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,  — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust  : 
"  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust, 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 
He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 
Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty  ; 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LAUAFAL.  333 

But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,  — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms, 
The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms. 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 

PRELUDE    TO    PART    SECOND. 

Down  swept   the   chill  wind  from   the   mountain 
peak, 

From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old  ; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 

It  had  gathered  all  the  cold. 
And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare  ; 
The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof  ; 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams  ; 
Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars  : 
He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt. 


334  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 
Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze  ; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew  ; 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf  ; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 
For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and 

here 
He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 
And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops, 
That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 
And  made  a  star  of  every  one  : 
No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 
Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice  ; 
'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 
In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 
Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost. 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly. 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 
With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly  ; 

Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide ; 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LAL'NFAL.         335 

The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind  ; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  Vrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess. 
Was  —  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless  !  " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch. 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


336  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

PART    SECOND. 
I. 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  frost's   swift   shuttles   its   shroud  had 
spun  ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From   his   shining  feathers   shed   off    the  cold 
sun  ; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold. 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

II. 
Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 
For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate  ; 
An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail. 
He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 
Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 
No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross. 
But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 
The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

III. 
Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air. 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  33/ 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time  ; 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago  ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one. 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass. 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade, 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV. 

"  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms  ;"  — 

The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring. 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  naught  save  the  grewsome 

thing. 
The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
hi  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

V. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,  —  "I  behold  in  thee 
An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree  ; 
Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns,  — 
Thou    also    hast    had    the    world's    buffets    and 
scorns,  — 


338  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 
The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side  : 
Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me  ; 
Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee  ! " 

VI. 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  caged  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust  ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 
Yet  w4th  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty 
soul. 

VII. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side. 

But  stood  before  him  glorified, 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate,  — 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UN  FA  L.         339 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

VIII. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the 

pine, 
And  they  fell   on   Sir   Launfal  as   snows   on   the 

brine, 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon  ; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 
"  Lo  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  ! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail. 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail  ; 
Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now  ; 
This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 
This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree  ; 
The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need  ; 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share,  — 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare  ; 
Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three,  — 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

IX. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound  :  — 
"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 


340  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

X. 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough  ; 
No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 

The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er  ; 

When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door. 

She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise  ; 

There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 

She    lingers    and    smiles    there    the   whole  year 
round  ; 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 

Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command  ; 

And  there  's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 

But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 

Note.  —  According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers,  the  San  Greal, 
or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  partook  of  the  last  supper 
with  his  disciples.  It  was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea, 
and  remained  there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration,  for  many  years 
in  the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants.  It  was  incumbent  upon  those 
who  had  charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed ;  but  one  of 
the  keepers  having  broken  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared. 
From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite  enterprise  of  the  knights  of  Arthur's 


THE    VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  34 1 

court  to  go  in  search  of  it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding 
it,  as  may  be  read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  King  Arthur. 
Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so  slight)  of  the  fore- 
going poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I  have  enlarged  the  circle 
of  competition  in  search  of  the  miraculous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  in- 
clude, not  only  other  persons  than  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  but 
also  a  period  of  time  subsequent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign. 


SONNETS. 


DISAPPOIXTiMEXT. 

I  PRAY  thee  call  not  this  society ; 

I  asked  for  bread,  thou  givest  me  a  stone ; 

I  am  an  hungered,  and  I  find  not  one 

To  give  me  meat,  to  joy  or  grieve  with  me ; 

I  find  not  here  what  I  went  out  to  see  — 

Souls  of  true  men,  of  women  who  can  move 

The  deeper,  better  part  of  us  to  love. 

Souls  that  can  hold  with  mine  communion  free. 

Alas  !  must  then  these  hopes,  these  longings  high, 

This  yearning  of  the  soul  for  brotherhood, 

And  all  that  makes  us  pure,  and  wise,  and  good. 

Come  broken-hearted,  home  again  to  die  ? 

No,  Hope  is  left,  and  prays  with  bended  head, 

"  Give  us  this  day,  O  God,  our  daily  bread  ! " 

II. 

Great  human  nature,  whither  art  thou  fled  ? 
Are  these  things  creeping  forth  and  back  agen, 
These  hollow  formalists  and  echoes,  men  ?  « 

342 


SONIVETS.  343 

Art  thou  entombed  with  the  mighty  dead  ? 
In  God's  name,  no !  not  yet  hath  all  been  said, 
Or  done,  or  longed  for,  that  is  truly  great ; 
These  pitiful  dried  crusts  will  never  sate 
Natures  for  which  pure  Truth  is  daily  bread  ; 
We  were  not  meant  to  plod  along  the  earth, 
Strange  to  ourselves  and  to  our  fellows  strange ; 
We  were  not  meant  to  struggle  from  our  birth 
To  skulk  and  creep,  and  in  mean  pathways  range  ; 
Act !  with  stern  truth,  large  faith,  and  loving  will ! 
Up  and  be  doing !  God  is  with  us  still. 

III. 

TO    A    FRIEND. 

One  strip  of  bark  may  feed  the  broken  tree, 
Giving  to  some  few  limbs  a  sickly  green ; 
And  one  light  shower  on  the  hills,  I  ween, 
May  keep  the  spring  from  drying  utterly. 
Thus  seemeth  it  with  these  our  hearts  to  be  ; 
Hope  is  the  strip  of  bark,  the  shower  of  rain. 
And  so  they  are  not  wholly  crushed  with  pain. 
But  live  and  linger  on,  for  sadder  sight  to  see  ; 
Much  do  they  err,  who  tell  us  that  the  heart 
May  not  be  broken  ;  what,  then,  can  we  call 
A  broken  heart,  if  this  may  not  be  so, 
This  death  in  life,  when,  shrouded  in  its  pall. 
Shunning  and  shunned,  it  dwelleth  all  apart, 
Its  power,  its  love,  its  sympathy  laid  low  ? 


344  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

IV. 
So  may  it  be,  but  let  it  not  be  so, 
O,  let  it  not  be  so  with  thee,  my  friend  ; 
Be  of  good  courage,  bear  up  to  the  end. 
And  on  thine  after  way  rejoicing  go  ! 
We  all  must  suffer,  if  we  aught  would  know  ; 
Life  is  a  teacher  stern,  and  wisdom's  crown 
Is  oft  a  crown  of  thorns,  whence,  trickling  down, 
Blood,  mixed  with  tears,  blinding  her  eyes  doth 

flow  ; 
But  Time,  a  gentle  nurse,  shall  wipe  away 
This  bloody  sweat,  and  thou  shalt  find  on  earth, 
That  woman  is  not  all  in  all  to  Love, 
But,  living  by  a  new  and  second  birth. 
Thy  soul  shall  see  all  things  below,  above, 
Grow  bright  and  brighter  to  the  perfect  day, 

V. 

O  CHILD  of  Nature  !     O  most  meek  and  free, 
Most  gentle  spirit  of  true  nobleness  ! 
Thou  doest  not  a  worthy  deed  the  less 
Because  the  world  may  not  its  greatness  see  ; 
What  were  a  thousand  triumphings  to  thee. 
Who,  in  thyself,  art  as  a  perfect  sphere 
Wrapt  in  a  bright  and  natural  atmosphere 
Of  mighty-souledness  and  majesty? 
Thy  soul  is  not  too  high  for  lowly  things, 
Feels  not  its  strength  seeing  its  brother  weak. 


SOA'A'ETS.  345 

Not  for  itself  unto  itself  is  dear, 
But  for  that  it  may  guide  the  wanderings 
Of  fellow-men,  and  to  their  spirits  speak 
The  lofty  faith  of  heart  that  knows  no  fear. 

VI. 

"  For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 
In  woman  and  in  man  I  find  it  not, 
I  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot. 
My  life-springs  are  dried  up  with  burning  pain." — 
Thou  find' St  it  not  .-^     I  pray  thee  look  again, 
Look  vnvan/  through  the  depths  of  thine  own  soul ; 
How  is  it  with  thee  ?     Art  thou  sound  and  whole  .'* 
Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earthly  stain  .■' 
Be  noble  !  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping  but  never  dead, 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own  ; 
Then  wilt  thou  see  it  gleam  in  many  eyes. 
Then  will  pure  light  around  thy  path  be  shed. 
And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and  lone. 


VII. 


Deem  it  no  Sodom-fruit  of  vanity, 
Or  fickle  fantasy  of  unripe  youth 
Which  ever  takes  the  fairest  shows  for  truth. 
That  I  should  wish  my  verse  beloved  of  thee ; 
'T  is  love's  deep  thirst  which  may  not  quenched 
be. 


346  LOWELLS  POEMS. 

There  is  a  gulf  of  longing  and  unrest, 

A  wild  love-craving  not  to  be  represt, 

Whereto,  in  all  our  hearts,  as  to  the  sea, 

The  streams  of  feeling  do  for  ever  flow. 

Therefore  it  is  that  thy  well-meted  praise 

Falleth  so  shower-like  and  fresh  on  me. 

Filling  those  springs  which  else  had  sunk  full  low, 

Lost  in  the  dreary  desert-sands  of  woe. 

Or  parched  by  passion's  fierce  and  withering  blaze. 

VIII. 

Might  I  but  be  beloved,  and,  O  most  fair 

And  perfect-ordered  soul,  beloved  of  thee, 

How  should  I  feel  a  cloud  of  earthly  care. 

If  thy  blue  eyes  were  ever  clear  to  me  .-• 

O  woman's  love  !     O  flower  most  bright  and  rare  ! 

That  blossom'st  brightest  in  extremest  need. 

Woe,  woe  is  me  !  that  thy  so  precious  seed 

Is  ever  sown  by  Fancy's  changeful  air. 

And  grows  sometimes  in  poor  and  barren  hearts, 

Who  can  be  little  even  in  the  light 

Of  thy  meek  holiness  —  while  souls  more  great 

Are  left  to  wander  in  a  starless  night. 

Praying  unheard  —  and  yet  the  hardest  parts 

Befit  those  best  who  best  can  cope  with  Fate. 

IX. 

Why  should  we  ever  weary  of  this  life .? 
Our  souls  should  widen  ever,  not  contract. 


SONNETS.  347 

Grow  stronger,  and  not  harder,  in  the  strife, 
Fining  each  moment  with  a  noble  act ; 
If  we  live  thus,  of  vigor  all  compact, 
Doing  our  duty  to  our  fellow-men, 
And  striving  rather  to  exalt  our  race 
Than  our  poor  selves,  with  earnest  hand  or  pen 
We  shall  erect  our  names  a  dwelling-place 
Which  not  all  ages  shall  cast  down  agen  ; 
Offspring  of  Time  shall  then  be  born  each  hour. 
Which,  as  of  old,  earth  lovingly  shall  guard. 
To  live  forever  in  youth's  perfect  flower. 
And  guide  "her  future  children  Heavenward. 

X. 

GREEN    MOUNTAINS. 

Ye  mountains,  that  far  off  lift  up  your  heads. 
Seen  dimly  through  their  canopies  of  blue. 
The  shade  of  my  unrestful  spirit  sheds 
Distance-created  beauty  over  you  ; 
I  am  not  well  content  with  this  far  view  ; 
How  may  I  know  what  foot  of  loved-one  treads 
Your  rocks  moss-grown  and  sun-dried  torrent  beds  } 
We  should  love  all  things  better,  if  we  knew 
What  claims  the  meanest  have  upon  our  hearts  : 
Perchance   even    now  some    eye,   that   would    be 

bright 
To  meet  my  own,  looks  on  your  mist-robed  forms  ; 
Perchance  your  grandeur  a  deep  joy  imparts 


348  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

To  souls  that  have  encircled  mine  with  light  — 
O  brother-heart,  with  thee  my  spirit  warms  ! 

XI. 

My  friend,  adown  Life's  valley,  hand  in  hand. 

With  grateful  change  of  grave  and  merry  speech 

Or  song,  our  hearts  unlocking  each  to  each, 

We  '11  journey  onward  to  the  silent  land ; 

And  when  stern  Death  shall  loose  that  lovirjg  band, 

Taking  in  his  cold  hand  a  hand  of  ours. 

The  one  shall  strew  the  other's  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  shall  his  heart  a  moment  be  unmanned. 

u\Iy  friend  and  brother !  if  thou  goest  first, 

Wilt  thou  no  more  re-visit  me  below  ? 

Yea,  when  my  heart  seems  happy,  causelessly 

And  swells,  not  dreaming  why,  as  it  would  burst 

With  joy  unspeakable  —  my  soul  shall  know 

That  thou,  unseen,  art  bending  over  me. 

XII. 

Verse  cannot  say  how  beautiful  thou  art, 
How  glorious  the  calmness  of  thine  eyes. 
Full  of  unconquerable  energies, 
Telling  that  thou  hast  acted  well  thy  part. 
No  doubt  or  fear  thy  steady  faith  can  start, 
No  thought  of  evil  dare  come  nigh  to  thee. 
Who  hast  the  courage  meek  of  purity, 
The  self-stayed  greatness  of  a  loving  heart, 


so. VALETS.  349 

Strong  with  serene,  enduring  fortitude  ; 
Where'er  thou  art,  that  seems  thy  fitting  place. 
For  not  of  forms,  but  Nature,  art  thou  child ; 
And  lowest  things  put  on  a  noble  grace 
When  touched  by  ye,  O  patient,  Ruth-like,  mild 
And  spotless  hands  of  earnest  womanhood. 

XIII. 

The  soul  would  fain  its  loving  kindness  tell. 
But  custom  hangs  like  lead  upon  the  tongue  ; 
The  heart  is  brimful,  hollow  crowds  among. 
When  it  finds  one  whose  life  and  thought  are  well ; 
Up  to  the  eyes  its  gushing  love  doth  swell, 
The  angel  cometh  and  the  waters  move, 
Yet  it  is  fearful  still  to  say  "  I  love," 
And  words  come  grating  as  a  jangled  bell. 

0  might  we  only  speak  but  what  we  feel, 

Alight  the  tongue  pay  but  what  the  heart  doth  owe. 
Not  Heaven's  great  thunder,  when,  deep  peal  on 

peal, 
It  shakes  the  earth,  could  rouse  our  spirits  so, 
Or  to  the  soul  such  majesty  reveal, 
As  two  short  words  half-spokcH  faint  and  low ! 

XIV. 

1  SAW  a  gate  :  a  harsh  voice  spake  and  said, 
"This  is  the  gate  of  Life  ;"  above  was  writ, 
"  Leave  hope  behind,  all  ye  who  enter  it;" 


350  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Then  shrank  my  heart  within  itself  for  dread ; 
But,  softer  than  the  summer  rain  is  shed, 
Words  dropt  upon  my  soul,  and  they  did  say, 
"Fear  nothing,  Faith  shall  save  thee,  watch  and 

pray  !  " 
So,  without  fear  I  lifted  up  my  head, 
And  lo  !  that  writing  was  not,  one  fair  word 
Was  carven  in  its  stead,  and  it  was  "  Love." 
Then  rained  once  more  those  sweet  tones  from 

above 
With  healing  on  their  wings  :  I  humbly  heard, 
"  I  am  the  Life,  ask  and  it  shall  be  given ! 
I  am  the  way,  by  me  ye  enter  Heaven !  " 

XV. 

I  WOULD  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours 

Grow  from  a  single  root,  a  single  stem. 

Bearing  no  goodly  fruit,  but  only  flowers 

That  idly  hide  Life's  iron  diadem  : 

It  should  grow  alway  like  that  Eastern  tree 

Whose  limbs  take  root  and  spread  forth  constantly ; 

That   love  for  one,   from  which    there   doth    not 

spring 
Wide  love  for  all,  is  but  a  worthless  thing. 
Not  in  another  world,  as  poets  prate. 
Dwell  we  apart,  above  the  tide  of  things. 
High  floating  o'er  earth's  clouds  on  faery  wings  ; 
But  our  pure  love  doth  ever  elevate 


SOAWETS.  351 

Into  a  holy  bond  of  brotherhood 

All  earthly  things,  making  them  pure  and  good. 

XVI. 

To  the  dark,  narrow  house  where  loved  ones  go, 
Whence  no  steps  outward  turn,  whose  silent  door 
None  but  the  sexton  knocks  at  any  more, 
Are  they  not  sometimes  with  us  yet  below } 
The  longings  of  the  soul  would  tell  us  so  ; 
Although,  so  pure  and  fine  their  being's  essence. 
Our  bodily  eyes  are  witless  of  their  presence, 
Yet  not  within  the  tomb  their  spirits  glow. 
Like  wizard  lamps  pent  up,  but  whensoever 
With  great  thoughts  worthy  of  their  high  behests 
Our  souls  are  filled,  those  bright  ones  with  us  be. 
As,  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  his  angel  guests  ;  — 

0  let  us  live  so  worthily,  that  never 
We  may  be  far  from  that  blest  company. 

XVII. 

1  FAIN  would  give  to  thee  the  loveliest  things, 
For  lovely  things  belong  to  thee  of  right. 
And  thou  hast  been  as  peaceful  to  my  sight, 

As  the  still  thoughts  that  summer  twilight  brings ; 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thine  angel  wings 
O  let  me  live !  O  let  me  rest  in  thee. 
Growing  to  thee  more  and  more  utterly. 
Upbearing  and  upborn,  till  outward  things 


352  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Are  only  as  they  share  in  thee  a  part  ! 

Look  kindly  on  me,  let  thy  holy  eyes 

Bless  me  from  the  deep  fulness  of  thy  heart  ; 

So  shall  my  soul  in  its  right  strength  arise, 

And  nevermore  shall  pine  and  shrink  and  start, 

Safe-sheltered  in  thy  full  souled  sympathies. 

XVIII. 

Much  I  had  mused  of  Love,  and  in  my  soul 
There  was  one  chamber  where  I  dared  not  look, 
So  much  its  dark  and  dreary  voidness  shook 
My  spirit,  feeling  that  I  was  not  whole  : 
All  my  deep  longings  flowed  toward  one  goal 
For  long,  long  years,  but  were  not  answered. 
Till  Hope  was  drooping.  Faith  well-nigh  stone-dead. 
And  I  was  still  a  blind,  earth-delving  mole ; 
Yet  did  I  know  that  God  was  wise  and  good, 
And  would  fulfil  my  being  late  or  soon ; 
Nor  was  such  thought  in  vain,  for,  seeing  thee. 
Great  Love  rose  up,  as,  o'er  a  black  pine  wood, 
Round,  bright,  and  clear,  upstarteth  the  full  moon, 
Filling  my  soul  with  glory  utterly. 

XIX. 

Sayest  thou,  most  beautiful,  that  thou  wilt  wear 
Flowers  and  leafy  crowns  when  thou  art  old, 
And  that  thy  heart  shall  never  grow  so  cold 
But  they  shall  love  to  wreath  thy  silvered  hair 


SOAWETS.  •  353 

And  into  age's  snows  the  hope  of  spring-tide  bear? 

O,  in  thy  childlike  wisdom's  moveless  hold 

Dwell  ever  !  still  the  blessings  manifold 

Of  purity,  of  peace,  and  untaught  care 

For  other's  hearts,  around  thy  pathway  shed, 

And  thou  shalt  have  a  crown  of  deathless  flowers 

To  glorify  and  guard  thy  blessed  head 

And  give  their  freshness  to  thy  life's  last  hours  ; 

And,  when  the  Bridegroom  calleth,  they  shall  be 

A  wedding-garment  white  as  snow  for  thee. 


XX. 

Poet  !  who  sittest  in  thy  pleasant  room, 

Warming  thy  heart  with  idle  thoughts  of  love. 

And  of  a  holy  life  that  leads  above. 

Striving  to  keep  life's  spring-flowers  still  in  bloom. 

And  lingering  to  snuff  their  fresh  perfume  — 

O,  there  were  other  duties  meant  for  thee. 

Than  to  sit  down  in  peacefulness  and  Be  ! 

O,  there  are  brother-hearts  that  dwell  in  gloom, 

Souls  loathsome,  foul,  and  black  with  daily  sin. 

So  crusted  o'er  with  baseness,  that  no  ray 

Of  heaven's  blessed  light  may  enter  in  ! 

Come  down,  then,  to  the  hot  and  dusty  way. 

And  lead  them  back  to  hope  and  peace  again  — • 

For,  save  in  Act,  thy  Love  is  all  in  vain. 


354  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

XXI. 
"NO    MORE    BUT    SO  ? " 

No  more  but  so  ?     Only  with  uncold  looks, 
And  with  a  hand  not  laggard  to  clasp  mine, 
Think'st  thou  to  pay  what  debt  of  love  is  thine  ? 
No  more  but  so?     Like  gushing  water-brooks, 
Freshening  and  making  green  the  dimmest  nooks 
Of  thy  friend's  soul  thy  kindliness  should  flow  ; 
But,  if  't  is  bounded  by  not  saying  "no," 
I  can  find  more  of  friendship  in  my  books, 
All  lifeless  though  they  be,  and  more,  far  more 
In  every  simplest  moss,  or  flower,  or  tree  ; 
Open  to  me  thy  heart  of  hearts'  deep  core, 
Or  never  say  that  I  am  dear  to  thee; 
Call  me  not  Friend,  if  thou  keep  close  the  door 
That  leads  into  thine  inmost  sympathy. 

XXII. 

TO    A    VOICE    HEARD    IN    MOUNT    AUBURN. 

Like  the  low  warblings  of  a  leaf-hid  bird. 

Thy  voice  came  to  me  through  the  screening  trees, 

Singing  the  simplest,  long-known  melodies  ; 

I  had  no  glimpse  of  thee,  and  yet  I  heard 

And  blest  thee  for  each  clearly-carolled  word  ; 

I  longed  to  thank  thee,  and  my  heart  would  frame 

Mary  or  Ruth,  some  sisterly,  sweet  name 

For  thee,  yet  could  I  not  my  lips  have  stirred  ; 


SOIVNETS.  355 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  lovely,  that  thine  eyes 
Were   blue   and   downcast,    and   methought   large 

tears, 
Unknown  to  thee,  up  to  their  lids  must  rise 
With  half-sad  memories  of  other  years. 
As  to  thyself  alone  thou  sangest  o'er 
Words    that    to    childhood    seemed    to    say    "  No 

More  !  " 


XXIII. 
ON    READING    SPENSER    AGAIN. 

Dear,  gentle  Spenser !  thou  my  soul  dost  lead, 

A  little  child  again,  through  Fairy  land, 

By  many  a  bower  and  stream  of  golden  sand. 

And  many  a  sunny  plain  whose  light  doth  breed 

A  sunshine  in  my  happy  heart,  and  feed 

My  fancy  with  sweet  visions  ;  I  become 

A    knight,    and    with    my    charmed    arms    would 

roam 
To  seek  for  fame  in  many  a  wondrous  deed 
Of  high  emprize  —  for  I  have  seen  the  light 
Of  Una's  angel's  face,  the  golden  hair 
And  backward  eyes  of  startled  Florimcl  ; 
And,  for  their  holy  sake,  I  would  outdare 
A  host  of  cruel  Paynims  in  the  fight. 
Or  Archimage  and  all  the  powers  of  Hell. 


356  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

XXIV. 

Light  of  mine  eyes  !  with  thy  so  trusting  look, 
And  thy  sweet  smile  of  charity  and  love, 
That  from  a  treasure  well  uplaid  above, 
And  from  a  hope  in  Christ  its  blessing  took  ; 
Light    of    my    heart  !  which,    when    it   could   nol 

brook 
The  coldness  of  another's  sympathy, 
Finds  ever  a  deep  peace  and  sta^  in  thee, 
Warm  as  the  sunshine  of  a  mossy  nook  ; 
Light  of  my  soul  !  who,  by  thy  saintliness 
And  faith  that  acts  itself  in  daily  life. 
Canst  raise  me  above  weakness,  and  canst  bless 
The  hardest  thraldom  of  my  earthly  strife  — 
I  dare  not  say  how  much  thou  art  to  me 
Even  to  myself  —  and  O,  far  less  to  thee  ! 

XXV. 

Silent  as  one  who  treads  on  new-fallen  snow, 

Love  came  upon  me  ere  I  was  aware  ; 

Not  light  of  heart,  for  there  was  troublous  care 

Upon  his  eyelids,  drooping  them  full  low. 

As  with  sad  memory  of  a  healed  woe ; 

The  cold  rain  shivered  in  his  golden  hair, 

As  if  an  outcast  lot  had  been  his  share. 

And  he  seemed  doubtful  whither  he  should  go  : 

Then  he  fell  on  my  neck,  and,  in  my  breast 

Hiding  his  face,  awhile  sobbed  bitterly. 


SONNETS.  357 

As  half  in  grief  to  be  so  long  distrest, 
And  half  in  joy  at  his  security  — 
At  last,  uplooking'from  his  place  of  rest, 
His  eyes  shone  blessedness  and  hope  on  me. 

XXVI. 

A  GENTLENESS  that  grows  of  steady  faith  ; 

A  joy  that  sheds  its  sunshine  everywhere  ; 

A  humble  strength  and  readiness  to  bear 

Those  burthens  which  strict  duty  ever  lay'th 

Upon  our  souls  ;  —  which  unto  sorrow  saith, 

"  Here  is  no  soil  for  thee  to  strike  thy  roots, 

Here  only  grow  those  sweet  and  precious  fruits  ; 

Which  ripen  for  the  soul  that  well  obey'th ; 

A  patience  which  the  world  can  neither  give 

Nor  take  away  ;  a  courage  strong  and  high, 

That  dares  in  simple  usefulness  to  live. 

And  without  one  sad  look  behind  to  die 

When  that  day  comes  ;  —  these  tell  me  that  our 

love 
Is  building  for  itself  a  home  above. 

xxvii. 

When  the  glad  soal  is  full  to  overflow, 
Unto  the  tongue  all  power  it  denies. 
And  only  trusts  its  secret  to  the  eyes  ; 
For,  by  an  inborn  wisdom,  it  doth  know 
There  is  no  other  eloquence  but  so  ; 


35S  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And,    when    the    tongue's    weak   utterance   doth 

suffice, 
Prisoned  within  the  body's  cell  it  lies, 
Remembering  in  tears  its  exiled  woe  : 
That  word  which  all  mankind  so  long  to  hear, 
Which  bears  the  spirit  back  to  whence  it  came, 
Maketh  this  sullen  clay  as  crystal  clear. 
And  will  not  be  enclouded  in  a  name  ; 
It  is  a  truth  which  we  can  feel  and  see. 
But  is  as  boundless  as  Eternity. 

XXVIII. 
TO    THE    EVENING-STAR. 

When  we  have  once  said  lowly  "  Evening-Star  ! " 
Words  give  no  more  —  for,  in  thy  silver  pride. 
Thou  shinest  as  nought  else  can  shine  beside : 
The  thick  smoke,  coiling  round  the  sooty  bar 
Forever,  and  the  customed  lamp-light  mar 
The  stillness  of  my  thought  —  seeing  things  glide 
So  samely  :  —  then  I  ope  my  windows  wide, 
And  gaze  in  peace  to  where  thou  shin'st  afar. 
The  wind  that  comes  across  the  faint-white  snow 
So  freshly,  and  the  river  dimly  seen, 
Seem  like  new  things  that  never  had  been  so 
Before  ;  and  thou  art  bright  as  thou  hast  been 
Since  thy  white  rays  put  sweetness  in  the  eyes 
Of  the  first  souls  that  loved  in  Paradise. 


SOAWETS.  359 

XXIX. 

READING. 

As  one  who  on  some  well-known  landscape  looks, 

Be  it  alone,  or  with  some  dear  friend  nigh, 

Each  day  beholdeth  fresh  variety, 

New  harmonies  of  hills,  and  trees,  and  brooks  — 

So  is  it  with  the  worthiest  choice  of  books. 

And  oftenest  read  :  if  thou  no  meaning  spy. 

Deem  there  is  meaning  wanting  in  thine  eyes ; 

We  are  so  lured  from  judgment  by  the  crooks 

And  winding  ways  of  covert  fantasy, 

Or  turned  unwittingly  down  beaten  tracks 

Of  our  foregone  conclusions,  that  we  see. 

In  our  own  want,  the  writer's  misdeemed  lacks  : 

It  is  with  true  books  as  with  Nature,  each 

New  day  of  living  doth  new  insight  teach. 

XXX. 
TO ,    AFTER    A    SNOW-STORM. 


Blue  as  thine  eyes  the  river  gently  flows 
Between  his  banks,  which,  far  as  eye  can  see, 
Are  whiter  than  aught  else  on  earth  may  be, 
Save  inmost  thoughts  that  in  thy  soul  repose ; 
The  trees,  all  crystalled  by  the  melted  snows, 
Sparkle  with  gems  and  silver,  such  as  we 
In  childhood  saw  'mong  groves  of  Faerie, 
And  the  dear  skies  are  sunny-blue  as  those  ; 


360  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Still  as  thy  heart,  when  next  mine  own  it  lies 
In  love's  full  safety,  is  the  bracing  air; 
The  earth  is  all  enwrapt  with  draperies 
Snow-white    as   that   pure   love   might    choose  to 

wear  — 
O  for  one  moment's  look  into  thine  eyes, 
To  share  the  joy  such  scene  would  kindle  there ! 


SONNETS   ON    NAMES. 


I. 

EDITH. 

A  Lily  with  its  frail  cup  filled  with  dew, 
Down-bending  modestly,  snow-white  and  pale. 
Shedding  faint  fragrance  round  its  native  vale, 
Minds  me  of  thee.   Sweet  Edith,  mild  and    true, 
And  of  thy  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue. 
Thy  heart  is  fearful  as  a  startled  hare, 
Yet  hath  in  it  a  fortitude  to  bear 
For  Love's  sake,  and  a  gentle  faith  which  grew 
Of  Love :  need  of  a  stay  whereon  to  lean, 
Felt  in  thyself,  hath  taught  thee  to  uphold 
And  comfort  others,  and  to  give,  unseen. 
The  kindness  thy  still  love  cannot  withold  : 
Maiden,  I  would  my  sister  thou  hadst  been, 
That  round  thee  I  my  guarding  arms  might  fold. 

II. 

ROSE. 

My  ever-lightsome,  ever-laughing  Rose, 
Who  always  speakest  first  and  thinkest  last, 
Thy  full  voice  is  as  clear  as  bugle-blast ; 
Right  from  the  ear  down  to  the  heart  it  goes 

361 


362  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

And  says,  "  I  'm  beautiful !  as  who  but  knows  ?" 

Thy  name  reminds  me  of  old  romping  days, 

Of  kisses  stolen  in  dark  passage-ways. 

Or  in  the  parlor,  if  the  mother-nose 

Gave  sign  of  drowsy  watch.      I  wonder  where 

Are  gone  thy  tokens,  given  with  a  glance 

So  full  of  everlasting  love  till  morrow, 

Or  a  day's  endless  grieving  for  the  dance 

Last  night  denied,  backed  with  a  lock  of  hair, 

That  spake  of  broken  hearts  and  deadly  sorrow. 


III. 


Dark  hair,  dark  eyes  — not  too  dark  to  be  deep 
And  full  of  feeling,  yet  enough  to  glow 
With  fire  when  angered  ;  feelings  never  slow, 
But  which  seem  rather  watching  to  forthleap 
From  her  full  breast  ;  a  gently-flowing  sweep 
Of  words  in  common  talk,  a  torrent-rush, 
Whenever  through  her  soul  swift  feelings  gush, 
A  heart  less  ready  to  be  gay  than  weep. 
Yet  cheerful  ever ;  a  calm  matron-smile, 
That  bids  God  bless  you  ;  a  chaste  simpleness, 
With     somewhat,      too,     of     "  proper    pride,"    in 

dress  ;  — 
This  portrait  to  my  mind's  eye 'came,  the  while 
I  thought  of  thee,  the  well-grown  woman  Mary, 
Whilome  a  gold-haired,  laughing  little  fairy. 


SONNETS  ON  NAMES.  363 

IV. 
CAROLINE. 

A  STAiDNESS  sobers  o'er  her  pretty  face, 

Which  something  but  ill-hidden  in  her  eyes, 

And  a  quaint  look  about  her  lips  denies  ; 

A  lingering  love  of  girlhood  you  can  trace 

In  her  checked  laugh  and  half-restrained  pace  ; 

And,  when  she  bears  herself  most  womanly. 

It  seems  as  if  a  watchful  mother's  eye 

Kept    down    with    sobering   glance    her    childish 

grace  : 
Yet  oftentimes  her  nature  gushes  free 
As  water  long  held  back  by  little  hands, 
Within  a  pump,  and  let  forth  suddenly. 
Until,  her  task  remembering,  she  stands 
A  moment  silent,  smiling  doubtfully. 
Then  laughs  aloud  and  scorns  her  hated  bands. 

V. 

ANNE. 

There  is  a  pensiveness  in  quiet  Anne, 

A  mournful  drooping  of  the  full  gray  eye, 

As  if  she  had  shook  hands  with  misery. 

And  known  some  care  since  her  short  life  began  ; 

Her  cheek  is  seriously  pale,  nigh  wan, 

And,  though  of  cheerfulness  there  is  no  lack, 

You  feel  as  if  she  must  be  dressed  in  black; 

Yet  is  she  not  of  those  who,  all  they  can, 


364  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

Strive  to  be  gay,  and  striving,  seem  most  sad  — 
Hers  is  not  grief,  but  silent  soberness  ; 
You  would  be  startled  if  you  saw  her  glad. 
And  startled  if  you  saw  her  weep,  no  less  ; 
She  walks  through  life,  as,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
She  decorously  glides  to  church  to  pray. 


(I-MrEBIAI..) 

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Half  pebble  calf,  Roger  Payne  Finish,  gilt  top,  7  vols      ....        13.00 
Volumes  in  this  set  sold  separately  in  cloth,  $1.25  per  vol. 
Les  Miserables.  Toilers  of  the  Sea. 

Notre-Dame.  History  of  a  Crime. 

Ninety-three.  By  Order  of  the  King. 

LES   3IISERABLES.     Popular  Edition.     5  vols.  12rao. 

Half  Russia 6.00 

Half  pebble  calf,  Roger  Payne  Finish,  gilt  top 7.50 

IRVING'S  (Washington),  Complete  Works.    Popular  Edition.    8  vols    8.00 

Library  Edition,  leather  titles,  gilt  top 10.00 

Halfcalf,  gUttop ItJOO 

Half  Russia lOO* 

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r.  v.  CUOWELL  &  CO.'rf  OliDER  LIST. 


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GEORGE  ELIOT'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,  ropidar  Edition,  wltli 
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"  Life  and  Letters  "  com])!ete. 

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0  vols.     Half  pebble,  calf,  gilt  top 8.40 

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10  T,  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.'S  ORDER  LIST. 


CROWELL'S  NEW  ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY. 

THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  By  Thomas  Carlyle.  Printed  from 
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ductions of  famous  paintings.    Photogravure  Frontispieces. 

2  vols.     12mo.    Cloth,  gilt  top 3.00 

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2  vols.     12mo.     Silk,  full  gilt 5.00 

2  vols.     12mo.     Half  calf,  gilt  top 6.00 

LORNA  DOONE.  By  R.  D.  Blackmorc.  Printed  from  new  plates  on 
fine  paper.  With  18  new  illustrations  by  Frank  T.  Merrill.  Photo- 
gravure Frontispieces. 

2  vols.     12mo.    Cloth,  gilt  top 3.00 

2  vols.    12mo.    White  back,  gilt  top 3.00 

2  vols.     12mo.     Silk,  full  gilt 5.00 

2  vols.    12mo.    Half  calf,  gilt  top 6.00 

IVANHOE.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Printed  from  new  plates  on  fine  paper. 
With  18  new  illustrations  by  H.  M.  Eaton.  Photogravure  Frontis- 
pieces. 

2  vols.    12mo.    Cloth,  gilt  top 3.00 

2  vols.     12mo.    White  back,  gilt  top 3.00 

2  vols.    12mo.    Silk,  full  gilt 5.00 

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VANITY  FAIR.  By.  Wm.  M.  Thackeray.  Printed  from  new  plates  on 
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2  vols.     12mo.    Silk,  full  gilt 5.00 

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TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS.  By  Thomas  Hughes.  Printed  on 
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ispiece. 

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T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.'S  ORDER  LIST. 


CROWELL'S  NEW  ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY.  — Continued. 

WORDSWORTH'S  POETICAr.  "WORKS.  With  an  introduction  by 
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ROMOLiA.  By  George  Eliot.  Printed  on  fine  paper,  and  illustrated 
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r,ES  MISi^^RABLES.  By  Victor  Hugo.  Printed  on  fine  paper.  With 
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ANNA  KARi<;NINA.  By  Count  Lyof  N.  Tolstoi.  Printed  on  fine  paper, 
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12mo.    Cloth,  gilt  top 1.50 

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12  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.'S  ORDER  LIST. 

CHAELES    DICKENS'S   COMPLETE  WORKS. 

A   NEW   EDITION   IN    15   AND   30   VOLUMES. 

Printed  from  ne-ar  electrotj-pe  plates  made  from  new,  large-faced 
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15  VOLUME  EDITION.     Carefully   printed    on    fine    machine-finish 
paper,  with  240  full-page  illustrations.    Large  12mo. 

Popular  Edition.    15  vols.,  cloth Per  set        .  .  $18.75 

"             "           15  vols.,  half  calf,  marbled  edges          "             .  .  37.50 

Library  Edition.    15  vols.,  cloth,  gilt  top  ..."             .  .  22.50 

"            "           15  vols.,  half  calf,  gilt  top      .        .         "             .  .  45.00 

Half  Pebble  Calf,  15  vols.,  cloth  sides,  gilt  top,  per  set  .  .  .  .  25.00 
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Nicholas  Nickleby,  16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "      1.50 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  15     "  "  "  1.25  "  "      1.50 

Old  Curiosity  Shop  and 

Reprinted  Pieces,        16     "  "  "  1.25  '•  "       1.50 

Barnaby   Rudge,   and 

Hard  Times,  16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "       1.50 

Dombey  and  Son,  16     "  "  '•  1.25  "  "      1.50 

David  Copperfield,  16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "       1.50 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "       1.50 

Bleak  House,  16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "       1.50 

Little  Dorrit,  16     "  ■■'  "  1.25  "  "      1.50 

Uncommercial     Trav- 
eller   and   Christ- 
mas Stories,  16     "  "  "  1.25  '•  "      1.50 
Oliver  Twist,  Pictures 
from    Italy,     and 

American  Notes,         16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "      1.50 

Christmas  Books  and 
Great  Expecta- 
tions, 16     «  "  "  1.25  "  "       1.50 
Tale   of    Two    Cities 
and    Sketches    by 

Boz,  16     "  •♦  "  1.25  "  "       1.50 

Child's  History  of 
England  and  Ed- 
win Drood,  etc.  16     "  "  "  1.25  "  "      1.50 


T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.'S  ORDER  LIST, 


13 


DICKENS'S  WORKS  —  Continued. 

30  VOLUME  EDITION.  With  all  the  original  illustrations  by  Phiz, 
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Printed  on  fine  calendered  paper,  large  12mo. 

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"         "         half  calf,  gilt  top " 

•«        «'        half  crushed  levant " 


$40.00 
40.00 
80.00 

110.00 


Volumes  sold  separately  in  the  plain  back,  cloth  binding,  as  follows:— 

Pickwick  Papers 2  vols., 

Nicholas  Nickleby  ....  2  " 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  ....  2  " 
Old  Curiosity  Shop        ....        2    " 

Barnaby  Rudge 2    " 

Dorabey  and  Son 2    " 

David  Copperfield 2    " 

Our  Mutual  Friend        ....        2    " 

Bleak  House 2    " 

Little  Dorrit 2    " 

Uncommercial  Traveller 

Christmas  Stories 14 

Oliver  Twist 45 

Pictures  from  Italy  and  American  Notes  . 

Christmas  Books 

Great  Expectations 

Tale  of  Two  Cities 

Sketches  by  Boz 

Child's  History  of  Kn;,'l;uia  .... 
Edwin  Drood  -Mid  Miscellaueouu        c 


66  illustrations 

3.00 

39 

5.00 

40 

3.00 

79 

3.00 

82 

3.00 

40 

3^00 

40 

3.00 

40 

3.00 

40 

3.00 

40 

,        3.00 

8 

1.60 

14 

1.50 

45 

1.50 

8 

1.50 

65 

1,50 

37 

1.50 

16 

1.50 

40 

1.50 

19 

1.50 

41 

.       160 

T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO.VS  ORDER  LIST. 


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GIRLS  :  FAULTS  AND  IDEALS.    By  Rev.  J.  R.  Miller,  D.D.  .        .  .35 

T.4LKS  ABOUT  A  FINE  ART.    By  Elizabeth  Glover 35 

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WHERE  LOVE   IS  THERE   GOD   IS   ALSO.     By  Count  Lyof  N. 

Tolstoi 35 

WHAT  MEN  LIVE  BY.    By  Count  Lyof  N.  Tolstoi *5 

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CHILDREN'S   FAVORITE   CLASSICS. 

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THE   STORY   OF  A  SHORT   LIFE.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Ewing. 

LOB  LIE  BY  THE  FIRE.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Ewing. 

THEi  LITTLE  LAME   PRINCE.     By  Miss  Mulock. 

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LOB  LIE   BY  THE  FIRE.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Ewing. 
THE  LITTLE  LAME  PRINCE.    By  Miss  Mulock. 
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LIBRAr.Y  USE 


HFC-l  1955 


31' 


241969  4  7 


I  I  r\ 


LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(Bl39s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


